Thunderbirds: A Collection
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: A series of one-shots and shorts for TOS and TAG. Some may be developed later into longer works. Some are inspired by photos and/or prompts.
1. Cross Training

**Thunderbirds: A Collection**

 **By The Lady Razorsharp**

 _ **AN: These are little fics that are interesting in their own right, but don't fit anywhere else. This collection may act as a repository for things that may someday take off into a longer story, but mostly, these are just fun little exercises. Some are inspired by a photograph or a piece of art (see my tumblr account at ladyrazor underscore blog at tumblr dot com), and they are about the Thunderbirds universe in all three of its iterations (TOS, 2004 Movie, and Thunderbirds Are Go). Pairings will vary, and I'll warn for anything sexy or potentially triggering. Most of these also inhabit the same universe as the rest of my writing.**_

 **One: Cross Training**

 _Alan has some hands-on experience rescuing the rescuer._

"It's not that different," Alan mutters to himself, climbing up into Thunderbird One. He drops hard into the command chair, feeling it adjust automatically to his height and weight so he can reach the controls. He glances overhead at the myriad of buttons and switches, already seeking out familiar patterns and locations of essential readouts, lining them up with his mental map of the controls of his beloved 'Three. A smile flits across his sooty face; his father must have anticipated this moment, where his sons would need to stand in for each other at a moments' notice.

"It's not that different," he keeps repeating to himself. _Flip, flip, flip_. A 3-D schematic of 'One pops into view, showing him the trio of red spots dotting the fuselage. A few of the boosters are tweaked, but that's to be expected; she came down hard. They should be able to make it out of here just fine. Piece of cake.

"We're okay, Scotty," he tosses over his shoulder at the oblivious pilot slumped in the seat behind him. He hazards a glance at his silent brother, taking in the cracked helmet, the blood splattered on the inside of the Plexiglass from the cut on his forehead, the closed eyes, the boneless sprawl. He wills himself not to cry; instead, he wrenches himself from the command chair and straps Scott down so he won't slither to the floor.

At Alan's manhandling of his person, Scott stirs and blinks. "Whazzat…Huh?" He goes to swipe at his bloody nose and whacks his knuckles against Plexiglass. "Alan?"

It's all Alan can do not to throw himself at his big brother. They've still got a long way to go to reach any sort of safety, so Alan pulls back and takes his brother's helmet in both hands, forcing Scott to look at him with those eyes that mirror his own. "You're okay, Scott. We're gonna get outta here right now."

Scott blinks again, smiling drunkenly. "FAB, lil' bro," he agrees, and is out cold once more.

Alan's jaw is set as he moves back to the chair, _Scott's chair_ , except now it's _his_ , and he'd better fly 'One as if he's been flying her all his life.

When the landing gear lifts, Alan realizes that it's true. 'One is 'Three, and vice versa. They are all part of each other, that sameness hidden deep within, ready to be called upon at a moment's notice. Not interchangeable, like meaningless components easily replaced. Complementary. Extensions of each other. A common denominator.

Inventor. Father. Father of five. Father of ten? Boys and 'Birds together.

Alan wishes his father were here, so he could ask him.


	2. Knave of Hearts

_**AN: Inspired by something extrapolated from the TAG episode 'Grandma Tourismo.'**_

 **Two: Knave of Hearts**

 _Two familiar faces-in another lifetime._

There are only two women who can hold a claim to the heart of one Aloysius Parker.

He's introduced to one of them when she is three days old, an elfin creature with a headful of blonde fuzz, wrapped like a snug pink burrito in the pram Lady Creighton-Ward is pushing. The moment that Parker holds little Lady Penelope in his arms, the connection is instant and eternal. Here she is, less than a week old, and he'd die for her–and not just because that's his job.

The other woman is Ruth Wilson–well, the Ruth Wilson of a lifetime ago, before she marries a Yank named Grant Tracy.

Despite being nearly ten years his senior, Ruth is a lovely lady in a smart frock with a snub-nosed pistol tucked into the top of her thigh-high stocking. Parker discovers this last bit one afternoon when he threads his hand up her skirt and finds the deadly little thing. She bats his questing fingers away and turns back to the business at hand, which is kissing him until he sees stars.

When they part, her grin is one of wicked mischief. "Come on, Aly," she growls, her voice low and throaty. "Those hands are way too clever for their own good."

He snorts, letting his hands wander into some other places that make her gasp in his ear. "'ow h'about that," he purrs back.

Ruth lets her head fall back against the wall of the millhouse. "You're gonna be the death of me, you sneaky bastard."

"You're not married yet," he retorts, before plying his mouth to the tender skin just below her jaw. "It's two months 'til that Tracy bloke gets you." He narrows his eyes as her hands wander across his back. "H'ive 'alf a mind to tell 'im I saw you first."

This makes her stop and press her hands against his chest, all sexy teasing utterly gone. "Aly, stop. This isn't..." She frowns, plucking at the lapels of his black suit, tucking the spiral cord of his earpiece back under his crisp white collar. "Why I let you talk me into this, I'll never know."

It was supposed to just be a walk down to the millhouse on the stream, two old friends chatting about their respective charges and talking around their real purposes. They met years ago, when Ruth was with the CIA and Parker with MI6, but now that they're in the private sector, they've made a point of staying in touch-at least, they did before she met Grant.

It had been an amusing few hours that afternoon, listening as she tried to watch her footing around her fiance. One look at her, however, and Parker knew she was thinking about Istanbul, when everything had gone to hell and they'd ended up clinging to each other in the days that followed just to remember there was good in the world. He wonders if she's replayed those nights as much as he has, recalling the softness they'd discovered under each other's steel. He'd showed her the full measure of just how clever his hands could be, and lost his heart in the process.

All these thoughts run through Parker's mind as he steps away from Ruth, letting her pat her hair back into place and smooth her skirt. "Ruthie," he begins, but she holds up a hand and cuts him to silence.

" _No_ , Aly. I _can't_. I thought I could–" Tears fill her eyes, and she turns away. "I don't know _what_ I thought I could do."

Ruth and Grant are visiting England for a few weeks, tying up some of Ruth's business before the wedding and her official retirement from service. Tracy's nice enough for a Yank, all ambition and dreams as wide as a prairie sky, nothing that a git born in the hearing of the Bow Bells could ever hope to hold a candle to. Parker wonders if Tracy knows what Ruth is really doing, and decides that it's none of his business what passes between the woman he loves and her fiance.

They leave the millhouse soon afterward, walking in silence back to the manor where Grant and Lord Creighton-Ward are waiting for their return before ringing for tea. Just before they get to the door, Ruth turns to Parker and drops a bombshell.

"Aly, I'm pregnant."

He blinks. "Is it Tracy's?"

She nods.

Parker looks away unseeing at the rolling lawns, the garden maze, the sky above. "D'ye love 'im?"

Ruth smiles weakly. "Yeah. I do."

He shrugs. "That settles it, then."

That afternoon, he says said goodbye to her, goodbye to all that she was and all that he can never have. He doesn't think he'll ever see her again, until Ruth mentions Lord Creighton-Ward's name to her son when he needs help with an immense project. That's a surprise, and yet fitting, somehow.

Today, Aloysius Parker is older, wiser. He's trained that girl with the fuzzy blonde head and watched her grow into someone he could be proud of. He's poured into her what he could not give to Ruth, and the result is that Penelope is an effective spy as well as a gracious lady.

He doesn't get to see Ruth very often, but she's always hovering at the edges of his perception. Whenever he sees the faces of her grandsons, he's reminded of her. Their tenacity, their courage, their cleverness–all passed down from her as much as the features of their faces reflect her DNA.

Time and again as he watches the Tracy boys save the world, he is so very glad that he didn't get what he wanted.


	3. The Thinker

_**AN: This was inspired by the TAG episode "The Man from Thunderbird Five."**_

 **Three: The Thinker**

 _The boys appreciate Brains and his, well, brain._

"Jeez, Brains! You think of _everything_."

Gordon's remark brings a smile to the engineer. "Th-thats my job," he replies, with a straightening of already-straight glasses.

The day wears on. The voices on the comm toss back and forth, the rescue continues and is completed without a hitch, thanks to one or two little miracles Brains has tucked into the corners of the Thunderbirds. Things that will come in handy just in time. Things that went unseen, until just the moment they were needed.

The Tracys don't take him for granted; far from it, in fact. They're all highly trained to do whatever it takes to get their jobs done, tech or no tech. However when push comes to shove, all of them know that they couldn't save nearly the lives they do without it. That is why no one takes Brains for granted, and no one know this more than Brains himself.

Once upon a time, there was a kid named Hiram Hackenbacker, a young programmer just out of Cambridge, who accepted an entry-level position at Tracy Industries. This young man quickly rose in the ranks by his skill and cunning, but most of all, by his ability to think of things. And not just any things, but the things that would need to be there just at the right time. Fail-safes for the fail-safes. Others might consider them happy accidents, but in reality they were planned contingencies.

One of these things just happened to save the life of Jeff Tracy's oldest son during a test flight of a then-unnamed prototype craft. Mr. Hackenbacker was asked up to the top floor for formal thanks, which just happened to come with a job description and an offer of the kind that one just didn't refuse.

And so, these many years and many sons and many rescues later, Brains is still coming up with the thing that's needed.

How _does_ he think of these things, he wonders, smiling to himself.

These five handsome boys, the public faces of Jeff Tracy's greatest ambition-they know how he does, but the rest of the world does not. They don't see the nights he stays up until he's ragged with exhaustion, red eyed and with way too many shots of espresso racing through his veins. They don't hear his screams when he wakes up in a cold sweat from nightmares of one–or all–of the boys falling to their deaths for the failure, or the simple lack of, the thing that was needed. They don't see him hunting for the neurologist who can help him remove his tendency toward motion sickness once and for all, so he can be of the most use to this family who took him in and made him part of their tightly knit band.

Why does he think of these things?

Because he _has_ to. He has to get them back, all of them, every single time.

His _brothers_. His _family_.


	4. The Power of Suggestion

**AN: This was inspired by PreludeInZ's 'Heavenward' series as well as the portrayal of the Hood's powers in TOS and the movie.**

 **Four: The Power of Suggestion**

 _Someone is messing with John…_

Maybe he's tired. Maybe he's _too_ tired. Maybe he's been up for too long this time, and should take a break. Maybe he's coming down with something.

Whatever it is, it's bad, because when the voice comes into his dreams that night, he finds himself listening.

 _They don't understand, do they, John?_

He rolls his head to the other side, eyelids twitching. If there were anyone within earshot, they would hear muttering, a sleepy growl.

 _They don't understand about her._

"Mm."

 _They'll never understand._

A sigh. The twitch of gloved fingers.

 _You have to protect her, John._

Flop of the head to the other side. "Huh."

 _They'll take her. They'll_ use _her. Then they'll_ destroy _her._

" _No."_ Eyelids flicker; a glimpse of sea-green.

 _You can do it, John. The two of you are unstoppable. Together you can bring the world to its knees. No one will take her from you then._

A light snore.

 _Are you listening, John?_

"Mmh. Yes."

 _Then you know what you have to do. Wake up and do it._

A gasp. Sea-green eyes flare open, muscles go rigid. Heartbeat skitters, then calms. Breathing slows.

The white lights sparkle into life around the edge of the camera. "Good morning, John," EOS says pleasantly. "You're up early."

"Good morning," he replies. "We have a lot to do today." A slow smile spreads across his face. "I thought we should get an early start."


	5. Happy New Year

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a guy and a girl chest-deep in the ocean. The guy is shirtless, and the girl is stripping off her tank top over her head. So I suppose it goes without saying: Sexy stuff ahead.**_

 **Five: Happy New Year**

 _Virg and Kayo reconnect after a rescue._

They'd spent New Year's Eve on another continent, midnight come and gone with them going at it hot and heavy in the cockpits of their respective 'Birds. The clock had wound down with them neck deep in a mountain rescue, and it wasn't until one of the climbers looked up at Virgil and gave a mirthless laugh that anyone had remembered.

"Some start to the new year," the battered climber had quipped darkly, accepting a cup of hot, strong coffee from Virgil in TB2's bay.

"Nah," Virgil had reassured him with a tired smile. "I'd say it's good luck. After all, your year can only get better from here."

The new year was almost forty-eight hours old when they arrived back on Tracy Island. Everyone exchanged hugs and a few half-hearted "Happy New Year" greetings before Scott shooed them all toward the showers and kitchen and bed. International Rescue would be dark for the next twenty-four hours, in order to preserve the fitness of its members-a rule that everyone was grateful for as they wearily headed for their respective corners of the island.

Kayo, however, slipped away to the beach without even getting out of her flight suit, and if anyone had cared to notice, they'd have seen Virgil following, also still fully geared. By the time he arrived on the sand, she was already heading for the water, dressed only in her arming tunic and hipsters.

He wanted no time in following suit, shucking off the neoprene and leaving his baldric and scope atop the sandy pile of wilted blue. He too headed for the water, stripping off his tunic and shorts to dive in and catch her around the knees.

She let out a screech but retained her footing, and slapped him hard on the back as he surfaced beside her. "You scared me to death," she accused.

He spit a mouthful of sea water at her. "I did _not_. Who else would it be?"

In reply, she grinned at him and seized his face in her hands, letting the waves push him into her for a long, salty kiss. When they parted, the smudges beneath his eyes were still there, but the eyes themselves were smoky quartz under the dripping dark fringe of hair falling over his forehead.

The water heaved and pulsed around them, slate grey in the early morning of January second. Slowly, Kayo raised her arms and stripped off her tunic, and from the way his mouth and hands took advantage of her naked flesh in the cool water, he'd seen it for the invitation it was.

So far, she thought, this was looking to be a _very_ happy new year, indeed.


	6. The Pearls of Penelope

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a young blonde woman smoking a cigarette, her face half-obscured by a string of pearls.**_

 **Six: The Pearls of Penelope**

 _Penny remembers her long-absent mother._

Parker may have been Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward's bodyguard since she was three days old, but there are a few things he doesn't know about her. For example: Parker doesn't know about the drawer hidden under the top of Penelope's vanity. He doesn't know that once a year, she touches the hidden latch, revealing the wide, flat drawer and its contents–items most definitely unsanctioned by her father and bodyguard.

Seated before her mirror, Penelope reaches into the drawer and takes out a half-empty box of Parliament Menthol Lights, a Waterford ashtray, and a book of matches. She shakes a cigarette out and lights it, drops the spent match into the ashtray with a tiny clink, then takes a drag and puts the box and matches away. When she was an adolescent, she used to practice smoking in front of her mirror, coughing and choking until she could drag on the cancer stick with the same air of elegance as her Aunt Sylvia-another thing that Parker doesn't know.

The next item Penelope turns her attention to is a flat square box covered in blue silk. She opens it, revealing a doubled length of matched pearls nestled in a circle of blue velvet. Penelope draws out the necklace, feeling the smooth, cool gems slide against her skin, the low light of her bedroom turning their creamy whiteness into aged ivory. She flicks ash into the ashtray, then takes another drag, letting menthol bite her throat and sting her eyes.

The next item in the drawer is a double silver frame; the left-hand photograph is of Lord and Lady Creighton-Ward on their wedding day. Both are smiling gently, their faces controlled, proper. He wears medals on his lapel; she wears a sleek dress of pure white satin and elbow-length gloves, her platinum hair piled atop her head and adorned with an intricate diamond tiara. The pearls, a wedding gift from her husband's family, drape her bare neck and shoulders.

The right-side photograph is of Penelope and her mother, at Penelope's Christening. The blonde baby wears a frilled bonnet and her lavish gown fills her mother's arms with antique lace. Her mother is looking down at her, smiling as Penelope stuffs a handful of her mother's pearls against her gums. The necklace is strongly knotted by an expert jeweller, but Penelope has no doubt that the next moment saw her mother gently extricating the priceless orbs from her daughter's tiny mouth and fist.

The cigarette is nearly gone, and Penelope's mouth and throat are burning. She sets the frame on the vanity and studies herself in the mirror, watching the smoke curl upward like a ghost.

The pearls have one more memory in their shimmering surface–encircling her mother's alabaster neck as she lay in her coffin–and it's for this reason Penelope will never wear them.

Someone made sure to retrieve the necklace before her mother was committed to the ground. Someone returned them to Lord Creighton-Ward so he could in turn give them to his daughter on her eighteenth birthday. She has no idea who it was, but she thinks it might have been Parker.

Finally, she stubs out the butt in the ashtray, then folds away the photos and slides the drawer shut once more. She'll clean out the ashes tomorrow, but for now, her task is done. The clock downstairs strikes midnight. Her mother's birthday is over for another year.

She climbs into bed next to Gordon, pressing herself into him, ignoring his pointed cough at the smell rising from her hair. He doesn't comment further, though, and she drops off to a dreamless sleep in his arms.


	7. Sophisticated Lady

_**AN: My first bit of TOS fic!**_

 **Seven: Sophisticated Lady**

 _Tin-Tin has a moment of doubt about her relationship with Alan._

With Alan, it's easy.

With Alan, it's always sweet and funny, two kids playing at being in love. He's strong and bright, a ray of pure brilliance who thinks the sun rises and sets on her. She's the first one he goes to after a rescue, to receive her praise and to let her fuss over his injuries. She's his cheering section, the one smiling and waving from the stands.

With Virgil, though, it's different.

If Alan is lemonade, Virgil is old Scotch. If Alan is sunshine and cotton candy, Virgil is midnight and dark chocolate. With Virgil, she's sophisticated, glamorous, a lady instead of a girl.

She loves Alan, she does–but as Virgil presses his lips to the side of her neck, making her shiver, she wonders if it's time to grow up.


	8. Scars

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt: "Come close. Show me your scars, and let us heal together." Little bit of sexy stuff at the end.**_

 **Eight: Scars**

 _Virg and Kayo know all too well: Not all scars are visible._

There's one on his left shoulder, from where he got pinned underneath the tread of the Mole one day. Luckily nothing was broken, but the gash was nasty and had bled like crazy. He'd like to forget the look of abject terror on Gordon's face when the aquanaut came running at the wordless bellow of pain, but it's seared into his memory forever.

There's one on her back, from sliding down a metal wall and catching a rivet that hadn't been tightened down. It'd been rusty, too, and she'd gotten a tetanus shot for her pains after it was all over.

There's one that neatly bisects the muscle of his left calf, when a cable broke and sliced him nearly to the bone. He was out for three months after that one, and if you look closely, the shape of the muscle is just slightly different than the right.

There's one punched through her right shoulder, with an oval pucker on both front and back. She won't tell him the details, but he's pretty sure he knows a bullet hole when he sees one.

There are the ones gone soft with age, gained in childhood and, at times, inflicted upon each other. He's got a fading line on his right arm from where he had to have a bone set after falling out of the apple tree in his granddad's pasture. Her left middle toe is slightly crooked from when he accidentally rode over her foot on his quad bike. The last time he lost his right thumbnail, it only grew back halfway, so his glove has a bit of extra padding in that spot. She has a tiny divot on her chin from slamming into the dashboard at the end of an ill-fated joyride in the farm truck.

Then there are the ones they can't see, inflicted by hasty words in the aftermath of too-long days, of listening helplessly to each other on the comms and being too far apart. Those are the ones they trace with sighs and long, low moans in the darkness of the South Pacific night. Those are the ones that rip open every now and again, and it takes long walks along the beach, and endless cups of coffee over the kitchen table, and nights spent in silence, just breathing together, that are the cure for the things that leave them raw and bleeding.

Then there are the ones that will never heal.

Absent fathers and long-dead mothers.

The ones that needed saving, but were lost to the water or to the earth or to the flames. The ones whose tenuous hold on life broke before strong hands could reach them.

Missed chances. Missed connections. Missed calls. The empty places at the table.

There's always hope that some of those will heal someday. In the meantime, he kisses the bullet hole in her shoulder, pressing his lips against it as if that will somehow erase the memory as well. She traces her fingers along his chest, down his belly, down to where her touch makes him gasp and laugh in deep bass rumbles.

The pillows are white, the sheets are white, and they wrap themselves in them to bleed and sweat and heal.


	9. Teatime

_**AN: This was inspired by a waist-down photo of a guy and girl in dress clothes, lying on a Persian rug in a formal living room. The 'no quote marks' style is deliberate.**_

 **Nine: Teatime**

 _Gordon and Penny navigate their long-distance relationship._

How've you been? he asks, accepting a cup from her (two sugars, no cream, madeline on the side).

Oh, just fine, she replies, pouring herself a cup. Been busy. And you?

Same, same, he says. The morsel of cake is gone in two bites; he reaches for another and she goes to fetch it for him.

Their hands meet over the tray. Fingers tentatively slide together, tanned skin beside pearl pink polish.

Aw, Pen, he murmurs. I've missed you.

She looks up, eyes brimming with tears. She talks to him most days, but it's the feel of him, the sound and scent of him that calms the ever-present ache of his absence. Now that he's here, she can only sit and be overwhelmed by how real he is.

He sets aside his cup and takes her face into his hands, brushing away her tears with the pads of his thumbs. When he speaks, after a long moment of just looking at her, his voice is barely above a whisper.

Don't cry, Pen. I'm here.

They melt to the carpet. Parker, in his infinite wisdom, doesn't disturb them until dinner.


	10. Silliness

_**AN: Have some headcanons!**_

 **Ten: Silliness**  
 _What you always wanted to know about the Thunderbirds (but were afraid to ask)_

Scott adores chocolate-covered cherries, the kind you can get at the drugstore. Someone in the family makes sure he has at least one box on Christmas and his birthday.

John keeps a file of adorable cat videos to watch when he feels a little down, despite being highly allergic to them in real life. Before EOS came along, he considered working with Brains to build a 'catbot' to roam around TB5, just for some company.

Virgil still has a piece of his baby blanket, about the size of his palm. It stays in his pillowcase, and once he panicked because he thought it was lost in the wash. Grandma found it and gave it back to him, after she sewed it on the inside of his pillowcase.

Gordon follows soap operas. When he was finishing up his recuperation from the hydrofoil crash, Grandma would sit with him and watch her "stories," and for lack of anything better to do, he watched along with her. She fills him in with the gossip if he can't watch with her.

Alan once snuck some of the scotch that he's seen his older brothers share from the bottle in their dad's desk. Two mouthfuls made him dreadfully sick (he fibbed to Grandma that he ate a funky tuna sandwich), and he's decided that he's never drinking again. Ever.

Kayo always wears a particular shade of pink polish on her toenails. She has a few backup bottles just in case the company stops making it. Every so often, she'll let Virgil apply it instead of doing it herself.

Grandma's favorite photo of the kids is a sepia-toned souvenir of them all dressed up like old West bank robbers, with Kayo dressed like a saloon girl.

Brains is a crack shot. His weapon of choice is a .44 Magnum–yes, that one–and he's known for his cool professionalism on the firing range.

Penelope was frightened by her father's Bull Mastiff, Ulysses, when she was small. She never planned on having a pet, but Sherbet was a gift from her Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Gerry, and her fear vanished as soon as she saw Sherbet's adorable face.

Parker knits, occasionally. He says it keeps his fingers loose and nimble. Penelope's favorite scarf is one he made for her. He also knits for charity when he has time.

EOS' favorite game is Pong. She plays anyone who'll play, and she always lets them win.


	11. Freefall

_**AN: What if…?**_

 **Eleven: Freefall**

 _Jeff's test flight of TV 21 goes awry._

Too many indicators were in the red. Too many alerts were flashing, demanding their attention. The mission controller glanced at her second with haunted eyes before touching her comm button. "Col. Tracy, this is Control. Can you hear us?"

The answer was choppy, but unmistakable. "I–py you."

"We've lost you on radar. Give us your coordinates."

"…I can't do that."

Lucy's heart stopped. She reached between the controllers and slammed the comm button. "Control to TV 21. Say again?" she snapped.

" _Lucy_. Oh, sweetheart. I was hoping I'd get the chance–"

She cut him off. If he didn't say it, maybe it wouldn't happen. "Jeff, what's going on?"

His voice was grim. "I've got smoke in the cockpit. I can't tell if it's mechanical or electrical. Controls aren't responding, and the stabilizers won't come back online."

"Tell us where you are." So he was ditching in the ocean; they could handle this. After he splashed down, she'd call the Secretary of the Navy to go get him if she had to, the Coast Guard and the Marines, WASP for crying out loud–

"Telemetry is screwed. I couldn't tell you if I was inside out or backwards."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Not funny."

He chuckled. "Sorry."

"What happened?"

"That's something you're gonna have to figure out."

Her heart may have restarted, but it was pumping ice water now. "No, _Jeff_ –"

" _Listen to me_. In two minutes I'm gonna be at the bottom of the Atlantic, and I wanna tell you…I love you. All of you."

He couldn't. He _could not_. "Don't _do_ this–"

" _Lucy."_ The command was sharp, and it cut her to silence. The control room went pin-drop silent around her. "I want you to continue with the-what we talked about. The boys–they'll help you. They're young but they know what's expected of them. Keep them safe, like I know you will. Kyrano will be there for you, and Mom, and all of our friends who helped us. Rely on them. _Will you promise me, Lucy?_ "

Tears were streaming down her face. "Yes. I promise."

"I'm so proud of our boys. I'm so proud of _you_. You're going to be all right."

" _Not without you!"_ Sobbing, she beat her fists against the console, beyond caring that six other people were staring at her. He'd survived the moon and Mars; it couldn't end here, not like this. " _Jeff_ …oh, Jeff, _please_ , I _love you_ , I _can't_ –"

"It'll be all right," he repeated, and Lucy wasn't sure if he was reassuring her, or himself. "It'll be–"

The comm went silent.

" _Jeff!"_

No answer except static.

" _Jefferson Tracy!"_

Static.

He was gone.

She threw back her head and screamed his name to the stars.


	12. Little Green

_**AN: This was inspired by a morning with my five-year-old son.**_

 **Twelve: Little Green**

Kayo wakes to the feeling of a body wriggling its way under the covers, a body too small to be the one she was expecting.

"Logan?" She ventures into the pre-dawn twilight, suddenly glad that she went to bed wearing her ankle-length chemise rather than sleeping skin to skin with Virgil, as she usually did. "You okay, baby?"

A sigh and another wriggle, this time pressed right against her back. "Yeah," comes the sleepy admission. "Just had a bad dream."

"I'm sorry, honey." She rolls over and gathers the boy into her arms, pressing a kiss into his rumpled dark hair.

"Where's Daddy?"

That's a good question, actually, and she pulls back the covers to rise from the bed. She turns back to tuck the blankets more securely around the boy, who's already asleep, then leaves the room to go find her missing partner.

She finds him-where else-in the hangar with his beloved 'Bird. He is sitting in the command chair in pajama pants and a faded Stanford tee, speaking in a low voice to the dark haired baby girl on his lap. The baby's hazel eyes are wide, if uncomprehending, and her tiny fingers are wet as she reaches out to touch the shiny buttons.

Kayo stands in the doorway, not quite ready to give away her presence. As she watches, Virgil flicks a switch, and a 3-D schematic of Thunderbird 2 pops into view above the console. He chuckles as the baby's eyes go wide in surprise and wonder. She reaches out and swipes her hand through the display, which sends the holographic image of TB2 spinning like a merry-go-round. Delighted, the baby claps her hands and giggles, drawing a chuckle from Kayo as well.

"You two are up early."

As one, father and daughter turn to see her standing in the hatchway. Virgil grins at his wife and shuts down the display, then turns the chair to face her. The baby coos happily at seeing her mother, and Kayo leans to scoop her up, but Virgil takes that moment to sneak a kiss. Kayo smiles and is lingering a moment longer on her husband's lips, when her eyes pop open and she lets out a yelp.

"Ow! Lucinda, let go of Mama's hair," she cajoles, as the baby tugs hard on the braid that has fallen over Kayo's shoulder.

"No-no, Lu," Virgil warns, carefully extricating Kayo's hair from their daughter's grip. He gives Kayo a sheepish grin. "Maybe that haircut you were talking about might be a good idea."

She snorts. "At least until she's old enough to understand English."


	13. Together

_**AN: Inspired by a vintage photo of a couple stealing a kiss in a coffee shop, with another man pointedly trying to ignore them. This is set in the TOS-verse.**_

 **Thirteen: Together**

 _Tin-Tin and Virgil make a bold move._

It was done, and there was no going back now.

Breathless, they held hands as they followed the attorney, their only witness to their hasty wedding besides the wife of the justice of the peace, as he led them down the street to the busy cafe. When they were seated, he pulled out the marriage certificate and reached into his pocket for a pen.

"If you'll just sign here," he said, laying the paper on the table in front of the new bride. He handed her the pen, and she was just about to ink her new name on the page when her groom of ten minutes pulled her into his arms for a quick kiss. The attorney, who had known them both since childhood, demurely looked away as the newlyweds indulged in a moment of passion that was finally–after so long–no longer illicit.

When they parted, the bride's eyes were shining. She turned her attention to the page and wrote in school girl copperplate: _Tanusha Tracy_.

She handed the pen to her groom. _Virgil Grissom Tracy_ , he wrote, in a bold hand that dared anyone to defy him.

The attorney collected the page and folded it carefully. "I'll file this as soon as I'm back in the States." He shook their hands in turn. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Tracy."

When he had gone, Tin Tin laid her head on Virgil's shoulder. "That was easy. Now comes the hard part."

Virgil brought her small, soft hand to his lips. "I know. But we'll face it together."

And really, she thought, it was all she could ask for.


	14. Dressed to Kill

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a woman wearing ripped jeans and some killer heels.**_

 **Dressed to Kill**  
 _Penny ponders how to fit an impulse buy into her carefully planned wardrobe._

Jeans.

Penny hates them.

On her, though. On most everyone else, they look good. On some people, they look fabulous.

On Gordon Tracy, they're an incitement to riot. The dip in the front, making her want to crane her neck to see more, the slight sag in the back that tightens when he walks, even the way he rolls them up, all bunchy and sloppy above his ankle bones. And when he squats or kneels–oh, Lord.

And the pockets. She only does it when she's sure they're alone, but she adores sliding her hand in them, her palm against his ass, grabbing a handful and squeezing–

Well. Ahem, yes.

However, today is about shoes. She has dozens of pairs, all carefully coordinated to her wardrobe. Penny never succumbs to impulse buys; each pair fulfills a specific purpose.

Except this pair. Deep burgundy red suede, four inch blocky heels, wickedly pointed toes, and the piece de resistance, ankle straps. Shoes to stop traffic. Shoes to make a man have a spontaneous orgasm, when his woman steps into view with these on her feet. She had to have them… Except now, she has no idea what to wear with them.

This will not do.

She pages through her holographic closet, each piece scanned and added to her special program that also suggests shoes, accessories, bags, hats, even coordinated ensembles for Sherbet. Nothing does these orgasmic shoes justice.

She comes to the last item, in last place for a reason: a pair of distressed jeans that is more denim string than they are fabric. She received them as a gift from a designer, which she accepted politely and shelved without wearing.

Now she regards them with a critical eye. Nothing is suggested with them, so she pulls up an index, beginning with basic pieces.

Black tee-shirt? No.

White tee shirt? Maybe.

A white button-down tuxedo shirt, accidentally left behind by Gordon. How did that get in there?

As soon as she sees it, she knows. It's perfect.

They have dinner plans, and he's right on time. She walks into the room, outfit in place, and he turns to see her.

"So where did you…"

The words die on his lips, and his eyes sweep her from head to foot.

"Uh," he manages.

"We can order in," she suggests.

"Oh, God, yes," he breathes.

Maybe, she thinks, jeans aren't so bad after all. You just have to have the right shoes to go with them.


	15. Your Body is a Wonderland

**Fifteen: Your Body is a Wonderland**

 _Virgil thinks Kayo is a work of art._

"Let me paint you, Kay," he asked, and of course she could not refuse.

"How do you want me?"

Virgil laughed. "Are you sure you want to ask me that question?"

Kayo grinned. "I meant, do you want me to wear something particular, or sitting a certain way, or–"

He flicked his warm amber gaze over her. "Just take off your shirt."

She arched an eyebrow. "Not like you to go for the cheesecake picture," she commented, even though she was stripping off her tee-shirt as she spoke.

His grin softened into a fond smile. "No, I have something else in mind." He stepped up behind her and unhooked her bra, kissing where the straps had pressed into her skin. "Go ahead and stretch out on your stomach."

Kayo settled herself on Virgil's bed as he directed. "You're eventually going to tell me what's going on, right?" She asked, pillowing her head on her arms. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply of his scent on the sheets, making a little noise of contentment that nearly had him abandoning his plans and joining her on the bed.

"You'll know soon enough," he assured her, collecting his supplies.

Kayo found herself dozing as the clatters and thumps continued behind her. Then without warning, something wet and cold touched her back, and she was instantly awake.

"Whoa! What are you–"

"Just relax," said Virgil from somewhere above her. "I'm doing what I said: I'm painting you."

Understanding dawned, and she smiled. "It comes off, right?"

He chuckled, applying another chilly brush stroke to her skin. "That'll be part of the fun, later."

"I'm holding you to that, demolition man."

It was late when Virgil finally laid down his brush and stood back to admire his handiwork. With a smile, he pulled out his camera–the good one, not just his phone–and snapped a photo. He leaned down and kissed Kayo's shoulder, moving to mumur in her ear. "Wake up, angel. Take a look."

Kayo opened one sleepy olive-green eye, then carefully eased herself up on to one elbow, focusing on the photo on the camera's viewscreen. A gorgeous rendition of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' had been painted on her skin from shoulder to hip.

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

Virgil set aside the camera and leaned in to kiss her softly. " _You're_ beautiful."

"Even when I don't have a masterpiece on my back?" she quipped "When I wake up with morning breath, or when I haven't had a shower in three days from working back to back rescues?"

Virgil laughed. "Especially then." He wiggled an eyebrow. "Lemme get a few more photos, and then we'll say goodnight to Mr. Van Gogh."


	16. Waiting

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a man and a woman, faces obscured by shadows, reflected in an industrial-looking window.**_

 **Waiting**

 _John finds that when you're worried about those you love, it's easy to come unstuck in time._

It never got easier, the waiting.

They'd done the coffee thing, the pacing thing, the sitting and pretending to read outdated magazine thing, until there were no more things to do. Now they just sat, not even seeing the pictures on the walls, though they were quite nice-local flora of some sort, hovering between wistful and cheery.

"What time is it?" John asked, and though they could both see the clock hanging on the wall, John knew Kayo would check her chrono as a matter of course; the clock could be wrong.

"0230," she replied. "I think they said the surgery was going to take at least five hours."

"Oh. That's right."

"You lose track of time in places like this," Kayo ventured. "I think that's on purpose."

"Yeah."

John stood, shifting restlessly and shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. He looked up at the clock on the wall, and his brain immediately did the calculations. An hour since they'd brought him in, thirty minutes since the doctor had come out to explain what needed to be done, and now fifteen minutes since the surgery had gotten underway. It would be 0730 by the time they were finished. He pulled out his phone and checked it; Virgil and Gordon hadn't answered his texts yet. He shut down the screen and resumed his seat, flipping the phone over and over in his long fingers.

They sat and waited.

John didn't know what time it was when Virgil appeared, Gordon in tow. Kayo immediately got up and let Virgil fold her into his arms, and she grabbed Gordon to pull his forehead against hers. The three of them stood like that for several heartbeats, but John stayed where he was, frozen to the spot.

The trio broke their embrace, and Virgil's eyes went to John's. "How is he?"

"We don't know," John admitted. "Kayo, what time is it?"

She duly checked her chrono again. "0500."

"He should be in recovery at about 0730," John informed Virgil. "We haven't heard how it's going yet."

"What happened?" asked Gordon.

John looked at the floor, at the worn toes of his trainers, at the photos on the wall, at the damned clock with its long thin red hand ticking off the seconds until they could have Scott back again. "He just collapsed," John replied. "One second we were walking, the next he was on the ground. Just...boom, down."

They'd never planned for this. He'd never planned to look back and see his older brother laid out on the sidewalk, eyes wide and unseeing as his lips turned blue and his face contorted with pain. Getting hurt, even killed on a rescue-there were contingencies for that. Not this.

John had only started to breathe again when the paramedics arrived and Scott regained some of his normal color. Kayo pulled at him, words tumbling from her lips and tears tumbling from her eyes, but still he stood, wondering what was going on, wondering at gravity and sidewalks and blue eyes.

Time. What time was it?

Oh, right. They were still waiting.

Except now they were waiting together, which was better.

John sat. Somewhere nearby Kayo sat too, leaning up against Virgil with his fingers gently combing through the ends of her ponytail. Gordon didn't sit, but then it was rare when he did. Instead, he did the pacing thing, the coffee thing, pretending to read the magazines, until he too finally just sat.

John blinked. The sunlight was streaming in, and suddenly everyone was on their feet, all talking at once. The doctor was there, pulling his cap off and running a hand through his hair.

"He's doing well. It was a textbook repair." The doctor smiled tiredly. "He's strong. I want all you boys to get checked out though," he said, nodding to John and his siblings. "This sort of a congenital defect used to be fatal, years ago. It doesn't have to be, if you all get screened."

"What-" John had missed something. "What-"

"Aortic dissection," supplied the doctor. "It's just as nasty as it sounds; that's why I want you all to get checked out. You might not even know you have it."

"We will," Virgil assured him. "When can we see him?"

"Give us about half an hour, and we'll start waking him up. I'll send someone to let you know, though I'd ask that you just go in one at a time. He's pretty tired after that."

So they sat for a little longer and waited a little longer. Then John-Virgil insisted that it be John, first-was following the nurse down an evil-smelling tiled corridor hung with more wistful/cheery pictures, and into a small white room where Scott lay, his eyelids at half mast. His lips were the right color again, and they parted in a tiny smile.

"Hey," said John.

"Hey yourself," Scott ground out from his dry throat, and just like that, the waiting was over.


	17. Beck and Call

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a fabulous blue sapphire and diamond necklace.**_

 **Seventeen: Beck and Call**

 _Penny oversteps her bounds just a little._

"Scott. I'm borrowing Kayo."

He raised an eyebrow. "And good–" he checked his chrono, blinking to make the numbers come into focus–"morning to you too, Lady Penelope. Um, I'm not sure we can spare her right n–"

"I've already talked to her, and she's agreed. I'm wearing my Aunt Sylvia's 'Oceania' necklace to the opera tonight, and Parker is having an attack of gout. Poor lamb, he's just in misery."

A laugh spluttered from Scott before he could stop it, although later he would later chalk it up to being awake for nearly twenty-four hours. At the moment, however, the diminutive blonde hologram frowned at his obvious lack of sympathy for her long-suffering bodyguard, and he brought his face under control with effort. "Uh, well, I'd appreciate some notice in the future. This is rather outside our line, you know."

"I'm well aware of that," she replied, going a little frosty. "I didn't give Kayo much choice in the matter, so please don't hold that against her."

"She's a big girl," Scott affirmed, already mentally composing a rather rude message to the pilot of Thunderbird Shadow. "Enjoy the performance. What are you going to see?" He didn't know the first thing about opera, but his grandma had raised him to be polite.

" _La Boheme_. The one where she dies at the end," Penny supplied helpfully.

Truth to tell, that seemed to happen in a lot of operas, and right now Scott was way past caring about much beside a hot meal, a hot shower, and his warm bed. "Ah," he nodded. "Well, have fun, and knock 'em dead in your fancy necklace. I'll check in with Kayo later."

Penny gave him a chipper smile. "FAB. Thanks awfully, dear. I'll send a gorgeous piece of tiramisu home with your name on it." She blinked out.

Scott shook his head, then clicked over to Kayo's comm. "Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Shadow."

"Kayo here. What's up, Scott?"

"I hear you're attending the opera tonight."

She had the decency to look somewhat abashed. "Yes, well. About that," she began, but he cut her off.

"Kayo, I have only one thing to say to you: If you forget my tiramisu, don't come home."

She grinned. "FAB."


	18. Casualty

_**AN: Suggested by the following prompt: "His breath shuddered through his chest, eyes wide in the darkness. His hands pressed against his mouth trying to muffle his sounds of pain."**_

 **Eighteen: Casualty**

 _Jeff and Lucy discuss a painful subject._

Lucy sat up; she could swear she'd heard a noise. She glanced over at the bassinet, but two-week-old Virgil was sleeping soundly.

At that moment, Jeff came stumbling into the room and crashed beside her on the bed, face planted in the pillow. "Ouuuuch," he bellowed, though thankfully it was muffled enough not to wake up the whole house.

"Jefferson Tracy, what on Earth–?"

Jeff rolled over with a sigh. "Not that I'm likely to forget, but remind me in the morning: Scott and John _have_ to put away their Legos when they're done playing with them!"

Now it was Lucy's turn to plant her face in her pillow–this time, to stifle her giggles.

"It's not funny," Jeff pouted. "You try stepping on one of those blasted things on your way to the bathroom!"

This made Lucy laugh all the harder, and finally Jeff joined her in the silliness of it all.

"Oh my love," she gasped, wiping her eyes. "If I recall correctly, you were right there down on the floor with them."

"Yes, I was," he conceded. He gathered her into his arms and held her as her laughter subsided into a fond smile. "Thank you for our wonderful boys."

She arched an eyebrow. "You're very welcome, but you were there, too."

"Mmm, that's right." His fingers brushed the top of her full breast, and she sighed in contentment. He leaned forward to replace his hand with his lips, but she gave his bare shoulder a playful slap.

"Don't be getting any ideas," she warned. "I'd like to let our Virgil grow up a little before we start on the next one."

He raised his head to fix her with a grin. "Old enough to leave his Legos where Daddy's feet can find them?"

"Yes," she agreed. "That'll be just about perfect."


	19. Fortnight

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a woman reading a book in a claw-footed tub, her hair in a towel.**_

 **Nineteen: Fortnight**

 _Gordon and Penelope enjoy themselves on their honeymoon._

They've been married two weeks.

Fourteen days of having her all to himself. Fourteen days of being together, and they're making up for all the lost days, all the lonely nights, all the times they were in the same vicinity and only able to smile and wave and then go about their dangerous lives.

He had to leave a few days ago (rescues stop for no honeymoon, and she gets it, as she gets everything about him), but today, the world is quiet and she announces: "I'm going for a bath."

He's content to stay in bed, lingering among their scents of the night before (and that morning), flipping channels and drowsing with the satiety of a happily married man in his element.

It's only when he realizes that she's been in there an awfully long time that he jerks back to full awareness and jumps out of bed, hurrying across the room to the bathroom. His heart is in his throat as he reaches for the door and pushes it open–

–to see her sitting in the claw-footed tub, hair twisted in a towel, a delicious smile on her lovely face. In her hand is a novel, bought in the bookstore they ducked into yesterday on the Champs-Elysee. She lets out a low chuckle, her teeth pulling at her lower lip; it must be pretty hot stuff for her eyes to be glowing like that and the dusting of pink on her cheeks. It's in French, so he'll never read it, but maybe he can ask her to translate it.

It's then when he realizes: He will never, ever get enough of her. Not as long as he lives.

He turns with a smile, heading back toward the bed–then stops, turns back around, and pushes open the door to stand leaning up against the jamb. He knows how he looks, framed in the doorway without a stitch on, chin studded with golden stubble, sloe-eyed like a contented feline, so her question isn't a surprise.

"Care to join me?"

He's happy to oblige, and she lets the book fall to the tiles.


	20. Jellybean

_**AN: Inspired by an adorable photo of a black kitten with a pink nose and pink toes.**_

 **Twenty: Jellybean**

 _Tracy Island is a pet-free zone for many reasons-not that everyone agrees with those reasons._

John dropped heavily into a seat at the kitchen table and plopped his head into his folded arms. In a moment, however, he raised his head again and let out a mighty sneeze before letting his head fall with a groan.

With a Kayo-made cookie in his teeth, Virgil turned from shutting the door of the refrigerator and set a glass of vanilla soymilk on the table. "Whasswifyoo?"

"I'm dying," John informed him. His face screwed up into a pained expression, and Virgil hurried to slap his hand over the rim of his glass before John let fly with another sneeze. "Uuuuugh."

Virgil polished off the cookie and wiped his palm on his jeans. "Sorry to hear that. Think you're catching a cold?"

"Allergies," John said thickly. "Remember when Mom used to take us to visit the elderly parishioners, and one of them had five cats?" He coughed and wiped his eyes on the hem of his shirt. "This feels just like that."

"Except there are no cats on the–" The words died away as Virgil caught sight of a black flash that scurried past and up the stairs.

John managed a smile. "You were saying?"

There were times they all resorted to using the Dad Voice, and now it was Virgil's turn to pull it out. " _Alan,_ " he called.

"No one here by that name," Alan replied from somewhere above their heads.

"Get down here, and bring your furry friend with you."

"Ugh, _fine._ " The teen clumped down the stairs, a bundle of black fur cradled in his arms. "There was an adoption thing in Auckland when Grandma and I were running errands. He was the last one, no one picked him, so I just couldn't leave him there! Even you guys couldn't be that heartless."

This impassioned plea was followed by another sneeze from the stricken astronaut, and Virgil grimaced in sympathy. "We're not heartless," he protested, "but Jay's pretty miserable, kiddo."

"John's not here _all_ the time," Alan countered, poking gently at the kitten's belly and giggling as its diminutive paws grabbed and swatted at his finger.

"John's here _now_ , and he can _hear you_ ," gritted the man in question.

"This is John's home as much as it is yours," Virgil reminded Alan. "Besides, I think Brains is allergic too, and he lives here all the time."

Alan redoubled his efforts. "He's so cute, though. Just lookit his little pink nose! He's even got pink toes. It's why I named him 'Jellybean.'"

A laugh spluttered from Virgil. "You already named him?"

"Why not?" Alan's sour look spoke eloquently of his opinion of adults. "Couldn't just call him 'hey you with the fur' now could I?"

John sneezed again, and the watery groan he added was only partly for effect.

"Al," Virgil said gently, coming to rest his hands on his little brother's shoulders, "I'm sorry, but he's going to have to go." He glanced down at the kitten, which was laying on its back in Alan's arms and playing with its own tail. It looked up at Virgil, and as if on cue, gave a soft 'miaow' and blinked its wide green eyes.

Alan pushed the kitten into Virgil's arms. "Fine. But I want _you_ to look at that face and tell him you're kicking him out."

"He's a cute little guy, but-" The cat picked that moment to scurry up Virgil's arm and perch itself on his shoulder, and then proceeded to groom the gel out of Virgil's hair. " _He's licking me,"_ Virgil muttered.

Alan beamed. "Aww, he likes you!"

Virgil reached up and extricated the cat from his hair, smiling down at the scrap of fur as it attacked his fingers. "I like him, too." He sighed and gave the cat back to Alan. "I'm sure he'll make a great pet for someone-just not _us_."

Alan cuddled the cat to his chest, then glanced across to John. "You couldn't take an allergy pill or something?"

"I'm afraid not, Sprout," John replied, though not unkindly. "Remember when you had that cold a few months back, right around 'Five's resupply run? The pressure changes are the pits when you have all that gunk in your head."

"Plus," Virgil added, "Grandma would end up being the one taking care of him since we're all busy. And if he got out, who knows what might happen to him?" He stepped forward to skritch the kitten under the chin, and it purred loudly. "And it's not just the critters outside; he could get stuck in a load chute or get into trouble downstairs-not to mention what he might do in Brains' lab."

The three of them gave a rueful chuckle at the mental image of Brains, horrified and allergic, throwing a conniption fit at a cat among his delicate equipment. "All right," Alan conceded. "I hate to ask you to fire up 'Two just for me, but can I catch a ride back to Auckland?"

"Just be glad Scott's not around to lecture you about wasting resources for personal use and all that." Virgil hugged his little brother's shoulders. "You're doin' the right thing, Al. I'm proud of you."

"I'll come too," John put in, grabbing a napkin and blowing his nose. "If Alan can give up the cat, I can take an allergy pill for a few hours."

"It's a day for heroic sacrifices," Virgil said with a smile. "Gentlemen: Thunderbirds are go."


	21. Wedding Night

_**AN: Inspired by a vintage photo of a passionate couple. TOS-verse.**_

 **Twenty-One: Wedding Night**

 _Marital bliss for Virgil and Tin-Tin._

He'd imagined this so many times, even fantasized about it in moments alone to satisfy a raw, aching need, but now she was here, and she was his forever.

"Virgil," she whispered. "My love."

"Yes," he rasped, and they were moving, searching, plumbing the depths together. "Oh, _yes._ "

She pulled him down to her, and he kissed her, knowing he was pressing hard enough to bruise, but still she pulled him all the closer.

Her nails dug into his back, her lithe body tensing under his and hushed words in her native tongue spilling into his ear, and still he moved, taking his pleasure of what was now rightfully his. He'd was done with waiting, done with lingering in the shadows. _His wife_ , the words echoed in his mind. _His wife_.

" _Oh–"_ she gasped, and the pretty, perfect face below him flushed, eyes wide, mouth open like an exotic flower. " _Virgil–"_

He let himself spill into her, filling her with everything he had and more. When the last of the stars had cleared from his vision, he crashed to the mattress beside her.

"I can't wait to do that again," she purred, and he laughed despite the drowsy warmth settling over him. He gathered her into his arms, marveling how easily she fit there.

His. His _forever_.


	22. Grandma Tourismo II

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt, which is in italics.**_

 **Twenty-Two: Grandma Tourismo II**

 _Scott and Grandma make a supply run._

" _Why am I doing this again?"_

" _We're almost out of food at the house and I might die if I do this alone, which means you would have to go grocery shopping and you hate grocery shopping. Also, you love me."_

Scott sighed. He never went on supply runs with Grandma; this was Virgil's job-except right now, Virgil and Kayo were somewhere known only to John, having some 'reconnect' time while Uncles Gordon and Alan were entertaining six-month-old Logan.

Besides, Grandma was right. She wasn't getting any younger (though she could still pilot with the best of them), and he did indeed hate grocery shopping. When he was in the Air Force, he'd mainly stuck to the dining hall to avoid having to cook, and the times he'd been to the Commissary were only out of bare necessity. And of course, he did love her.

However, making a supply run meant going in Thunderbird Two, which made him twitchy. Not because the machine itself was foreign to him; that had been rendered academic by his father, who had built in enough similarities between the four mobile 'Birds so that any of them could stand in for the others, but because to him, anything less than Mach 5 was pointless. He smirked to himself; Thunderbird One was a jealous mistress, but she repaid his slavish devotion with everything she had and more. Just thinking about her made his heart beat quicker and his body ache with longing, like a man who'd spent too much time away from his lover.

Grandma consulted her list, chewing her bottom lip in thought. "I wonder: Would Logan like strawberries?"

Scott flexed his hands against the grips, feeling the deep thrum of the mammoth machine roll through him. Like Virgil, TB2 was steady and sturdy, and he loved her just as much as Scott loved TB1. Of course, being steady and sturdy meant that 'Two lacked her sister's agility, eschewing speed for brute strength and versatility. 'Two was the heavy lifter in the family, like a beautiful woman with the muscles of an MMA fighter. Scott blinked; no wonder Virgil and Kayo had ended up together, since Kayo herself was a gorgeous woman with a knockout punch.

"Or how about peaches? I can't remember if we've given him peaches yet or not."

No, Scott much preferred 'One to any of her sisters, though they all had their charms. 'Three had the grace of a ballerina with fire in her soul, and by virtue of her rocket engines was the most like 'One. He enjoyed piloting 'Three when Alan was otherwise occupied, but truth be told, he'd take blue sky over star-studded space any day. He liked seeing the ground flash by and dancing in and out of clouds, where space had very different rules. Alan and John loved zero-g and the tightrope walk of being an oxygen-dependent life form in a vacuum, but Scott supposed the payoff of witnessing even a tiny corner of the cosmos up close was worth it all.

"Toothpaste," Grandma murmured, taking a pencil from behind her ear and jotting a note on her memo pad. Unlike her grandsons, she still believed in writing something down rather than trusting it to her phone, although Brains had tweaked her device to be especially user-friendly. "Can't forget toothpaste."

Scott hadn't had much time in Thunderbird Four, but there had been the odd moment when he'd needed to step in for Gordon at the controls of the bright yellow sub. He'd been pleasantly surprised to learn that 'Four was as nimble in water as 'One was in the sky, and he could almost forget how close the walls were. Space and water had some of the same rules, though, and Gordon thrived in the depths as much as his brothers did in the heights. Scott gave a mental shrug; maybe he wouldn't ever see a giant siphonophore or a vampire squid up in person, but listening to Gordon dreamily recall his encounters with the wonders of the deep was enough.

"I think I've got everything," Grandma pronounced, giving her list a final once-over. "Paper towels, laundry detergent, a new mop head, bacon-John said that he's been craving a good BLT-flour, sugar, blah blah, all of that stuff. Oh, that reminds me..." Her words trailed off, and she put her pencil to the paper again, muttering under her breath.

As much as Scott loved his next-youngest-brother, he could count on two hands the amount of times he'd been up to Thunderbird Five. Again, space just made Scott nervous, maybe because it was so incredibly foreign to an air-breathing human, but he supposed John liked it just for that reason. It was a place of great beauty as well as danger, and seeing their space monitor's love for it could even smooth out the edges of Scott's discomfort. Like Gordon rattling on about his ocean, John could talk for hours about the ecstasy of weightlessness or the sight of a hurricane from above, or the lights of Moscow or Beijing or New York City glittering beneath his feet. On the ground, John had always been gangly and never ceased to make his brothers chuckle at how his limbs always got in his way, but Scott had seen John gain the lithe grace of a ballet dancer in zero-g, and knew that his redheaded sibling was in his true element.

Grandma put down her extensive list. "Scotty, are you listening to me?"

"Hm?" Scott snapped back to awareness, the part of his brain not occupied with piloting 'Two falling back to Earth from the heights of 'Five. "Sorry, Grandma. Just thinking. What were you saying?"

She smiled and shook her head. "You boys always have your heads in the clouds-or the ocean, or outer space." Her gaze went soft as she stared out of the windscreen. "You remind me of your father. He used to get that same look, and I'd have to reel him back in."

The mention of his father both warmed him and tore at him, and Scott had to blink back unexpected tears. "Do you think we'll ever find him?" he wondered aloud.

"Yes," Grandma said, as easily and surely as if he'd asked her if the sky was blue. "In the meantime, let's do our shopping." She cracked a grin up at him through her own tears. "Can't have an empty fridge when he comes home."

Scott smiled. "Yes ma'am." He pushed the grips forward, giving 'Two just a little of her sister's speed, and they flew on through the endless blue.


	23. Bishounen Senshi

_**AN: You can probably guess what I was watching when this popped into my head. Maybe Scott is dreaming? Otherwise, this was just for giggles. TAG-verseish, idek.**_

 **Twenty-Three: Bishounen Senshi**

 _Scott has an...interesting experience._

"Wait, what?"

All around Scott, people were collapsing, groaning, like puppets whose strings had been cut. The sky was darkening above him, and the air was becoming thick and heavy, pressing against his chest. Soon, he was the only one standing on the eerily silent street, surrounded by limp, ashen bodies.

The little black cat–it had started following him that morning, and to his annoyed surprise, it was back again–only this time it seemed to be starting at him, its eyes oddly human under the tiny golden crescent mark on its forehead.

"Scott Carpenter Tracy," said a feminine voice, and he spun to see where the sound had come from.

Nothing. There was no one awake except him and the cat.

 _The cat!_

"Did–did you say something?" He felt like an idiot talking to the sweet-faced animal, but to his shock, it nodded its small round head at him.

"Yes. I can't explain, there's no time. Take this."

A small object materialized in his palm, and he brought it up to his face to gape at it. "A… keychain?"

He held it up, clutching its silver ring in his fingertips, letting it dangle from the silver chain. The shape was alien and yet familiar–an open hand, pierced with a heart, with what looked like wings swept back from the wrist. He'd seen it before, he knew he had, but _where?_

"Scott Tracy, _please!_ Listen to me!" The cat's voice– _no, don't think about it now_ –was edged with desperation. "Hold it high and say these words: 'Moon Power Suit Up!'

The words seemed to echo in Scott's ears, and electricity ran up his spine.

Yes.

 _Yes!_

He clutched the symbol in his fist and held it high. _"Moon Power Suit UP!"_

There was a blinding flash of light, and every nerve in his body was on fire–but it wasn't pain. It was longing and hope and a determination so strong that he couldn't help but rise and defend those who needed him.

The faces of four others flashed in his brain in quick succession–they should be here by his side, where were they? They had fought together so many times on an endless deserted plain, against a foe that would surely spell the end for their kingdom. They had stood with him when it meant certain doom, but they had given everything, sacrificed nobly-and were lost to him. He ached to see them again.

Then the vision was gone, and he was standing on the street again, only now his ordinary clothes had been replaced by a close-fitting uniform of brilliant white touched with glints of silver-grey. In his hand he held not the little winged symbol–for that was now pinned to his chest over his heart–but a gleaming silver sword that hummed with energy. Four jewels glittered in the hilt of the sword: Ruby, sapphire, emerald, and yellow topaz.

He frowned, feeling an itch on his forehead, and raised the blade to see his reflection. A silver stone shimmered from between his brows, and he raised a shaking gloved hand to touch it.

"What's going on?" He meant to shout, but it came out as a whisper.

"You need to defeat this evil energy that's harming the people," the cat continued. "Use your sword. It will guide you. Now _hurry!"_

It was true; as he tightened his grip around the handle, words came unbidden into his mind. A twisted form waited for him at the end of the street, ugly tendrils of terrible, filthy hatred reaching for him, intending nothing less than his painful death.

He could do this. Then, he'd find the others.

Scott raised his sword and attacked.


	24. Sexiest Man Alive

_**AN: TAG-verse. Inspired by a photo of a ruggedly handsome guy on a yacht, holding a fancy glass. The photographer and her assistant are inspired by some family members.**_

 **Twenty-Four: Sexiest Man Alive**

 _No matter what, Virgil always manages to stay humble._

Virgil wasn't entirely sure why he'd agreed to this, but he had, and so here he was. All he could hope for now was not to let his side down or disgrace his family, so he resigned himself to be what his mother raised him to be: Charming, genial, obliging, and handsome.

It was rather too bad that all the photographers wanted out of their newest Global Weekly 'Sexiest Man Alive' was _rakish_ and _broody_. He had the suspicion that when the stylist and prop manager were done with him, his expression was trending more toward _seasick_.

The amber liquid in his glass–chosen, he was told, because it matched the color of his eyes–wasn't even alcoholic; it was brewed tea. Apparently the magazine had a zero-tolerance policy against liquor, having survived the fallout of drunken after-shoot parties. If it had indeed been whiskey, he might have downed a finger's worth to take the edge off the tedium and the nerves.

Give him a rescue any day, he thought, idly swirling the contents of the glass he held in his fingertips. In his mind, celebrity was all well and good, but only if it served a purpose. None of them had ever deliberately sought it out–well, maybe with the exception of Gordon and his gold medal, but that seemed different somehow. An Olympian was recognized first for their superhuman feats of strength or skill or speed, and _then_ as a face to sell breakfast cereal. Virgil chuckled to himself, remembering the day that a truck pulled up to the farmhouse and a workman unloaded a pallet of bright orange boxes, all with Gordon's grinning mug stamped on the front. It had taken them a year to eat all the cereal, even with donating half the boxes to a local foodbank.

"Mr. Tracy–"

Virgil snapped back to awareness and couldn't help looking behind him for his father. Then he blinked, and brought the photographer into focus. "Please, it's Virgil."

Estelle, the photographer, was a thin woman in her late sixties with shoulder-length brown hair and no makeup on her lined face. "Right." The breeze caught the ends of the bright pink scarf tied around her neck, and she pushed up the sleeves of her white linen shirt. "I think we're ready. This light is just gorgeous." She turned to her assistant, a dark-haired young woman with a ready smile, and took the complicated camera from her hands. "I'm just going to shoot some preliminary stuff, no stress." She proceeded to click away, stopping every so often to change her position. "Very nice," she commented, although Virgil wasn't sure if she was referring to the sunset or her subject.

"This is one of my favorite times of the day to head outside with my sketchbook," he ventured, trying to hold up his end of the conversation.

The camera continued to emit its rapid-fire click, which since the photos were digital, was only a reminder of advancing film in days gone by. "So you're an artist, Mr– _Virgil_ ," Estelle caught herself.

He shrugged. "Nothing serious, but yeah, I like to noodle around with a pencil or a brush."

"Art is art," she retorted, handing off her camera for another fitted with a different filter. "And if you make art, you're an artist. 'Nuff said."

Virgil thought about this for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Okay," said Estelle, "just look out over the water for me–right. Keep the glass up; just in your fingertips, please. That's it." She shot her assistant a grin. "I don't know about you, Katie, but I'm certainly enjoying the view."

Her assistant looked on in appreciation. "Me too. GW sure picked a winner."

Virgil broke character to laugh, feeling his face turn warm even in the cool breeze. "You two are making it awfully hard to brood."

Estelle continued to snap away. "Don't worry; I've got a ton of broody. Let's have a few smiles. And Katie, would you give him–?"

Kate stepped forward, fishing a pair of sleek eyeglasses out of her pocket. "Here, put these on. This'll really make everyone's ovaries explode."

He made a face at the specs. "I don't wear glasses."

" _We_ know that, and _you_ know that, but the greater world doesn't know that," the photog replied. "Humor me. We might not even use those shots, anyway."

"Hmm." He exchanged the faux whiskey for the equally fake eyewear, and settled them on his nose. To his surprise, the lenses were only plain pieces of glass, and he leaned up against the railing. "Well?"

Kate drew a breath between her teeth. "Yep. There they go, just like firecrackers. _Pow! Pow!"_

Estelle winked at Virgil. "I'll have to take Katie's word for it; I had mine out years ago."

"You two are terrible," he scolded, unable to keep from laughing.

Estelle and Kate shared a glance of pure mischief. "Yes," Kate affirmed. "Yes, we are."


	25. The Human Touch

_**AN: Inspired by some fanart of Virgil resting his forehead against Scott's after younger bro rescues eldest bro.**_

 **Twenty Five: The Human Touch**

 _The Tracys know just how important touch is-on and off the job._

"Hang on Virgil!"

John's voice wavered, but Virgil knew that his older brother's voice was as steady as ever; it was the aftershock running through his own body that made the syllables waver in the dusty air. Virgil grit his teeth and made himself as small as possible-no mean feat, considering his 6'2" 220-lb frame, with the VRGL exosuit on top of that-and followed his brother's instruction.

In a few moments, the queasy rolling motion passed, and Virgil heaved himself to his feet. "I'm on the move. Where was that lifesign again?" His eyes scanned the pulverized rubble of what had once been a thriving seaside town, and as far as he could see, his was the only lifesign John would find.

"At the next cross street," John said into his ear, the words clipped and tight. "The apartment above the store-well, it's all one story, now."

"FAB." Virgil heard his own breath echo against the Plexiglass of his helmet, and watched with a sinking heart as the HUD lit up red with dead townsfolk everywhere he looked. At every moment, he expected to hear John informing him that the lifesign was gone, that the quake had claimed another victim, but until then Virgil walked on toward the ruined store. Finally, the HUD lit up green, overlaid by twin circles of red. "I've got it," he radioed. "Confirmed: One lifesign. I'm going in."

"Be careful, Virg," John warned. "I'll alert Scott and Gordon to your location; they're not far away."

His engineering expertise flowing through his mind like a clear, strong river, Virgil picked his way across the debris field, testing his footholds every step of the way. The building had indeed pancaked on top of itself, but Virgil had no desire to take a wrong step and fall through to a basement, trapping himself while trying to rescue someone. He engaged the pincers of the suit and began to carefully lift slabs of concrete that were directly over the lifesign, peeling the layers away like an onion. Finally, he found a heavy door and laid it aside, revealing a crumpled pair of bodies huddled on a bloodstained mattress. A faint whimper came from the middle of the knot of dust-choked cloth, and Virgil's heart went into his throat. "Thunderbird Two confirms: One survivor. Extricating now."

He tapped his forearm display, calling up phonetic syllables he could read off the inside of his helmet. "I'm with International Rescue," he said, in what he knew was horribly accented but decipherable Mandarin. "My name is Virgil. I'm here to get you out."

Virgil disengaged himself from the exosuit and went forward on hands and knees to the unnaturally still pair huddled on the mattress. The man had sheltered his wife, who in turn had clutched the child-a girl, he thought, by the once-pink dress and rainbow sneakers he saw sticking out from under the woman-against her chest. "Are you hurt?" he asked, softening his voice as he saw a pair of huge brown eyes peep from her protective nest.

" _Bu shi,_ " came the small voice, and although the translation popped up on the HUD (I am not), Virgil was familiar enough with the basics that he understood, but then she said something else that he had to wait for his translator to parse. "I think that's my mom's blood."

Virgil looked closely at the woman, whose face was composed and serene even in death, despite the concrete resting against the back of her skull. Sure enough, the girl was right; blood stained the underside of the concrete and had dripped down the woman's face and neck to spatter her daughter's face. The man, who Virgil had lain gently on his side a few feet away, bore his wife's blood on his shirt, but Virgil suspected that he had been crushed and suffocated by the sheer weight of what had once been his home.

Home. A place that was supposed to be safe, he mused, even as he strained to push aside the hundredweight of concrete that had ended the woman's life. This place had been a refuge, where the child did her homework and the wife folded laundry, where the family had gathered to cook a meal and laugh at dad jokes and wipe away tears brought on by nightmares. With effort, Virgil swallowed away the ache in his throat at unshed tears and eased the slack arms of the woman away from the child, unable to help patting the dusty sweater-clad shoulder as he laid her beside her husband. "You did good, Mom and Dad," he murmured in English. "She's okay."

"Did you say something, Thunderbird Two?" John's concerned voice was immediately in his ear.

"Negative," Virgil managed through a still-tight throat. "I've got our survivor. Girl, looks to be about eight or ten years old, no injuries I can visualize at this moment. I'm taking her back to 'Two."

"FAB," John replied, his own words soft in response to his brother's obvious emotion. "Good job, Virgil."

The little girl looked up at Virgil, her big brown eyes huge, tears making muddy tracks on her tearstained face. Virgil smiled at her through his own tears and tapped the commands on his forearm to move 'Two nearer to his position. "My ship come here," he told the girl without benefit of the display, watching for her to nod in understanding before continuing. "We go safe place." He reached down and eased her into his arms, feeling her small hands thread around the back of his helmet. "Rest now, okay?"

He felt more than saw her nod as she tucked her dusty head against his baldric, and picked his way past the VRGL up to where the hulking green machine was gently settling onto the cracked asphalt of the street. He waited until the VTOL engines had quieted, then took the girl into the bay and laid her on one of the pull-down stretchers. He tapped her chest. "Stay here, yes?" Having exhausted his knowledge of Mandarin without using his onboard translator, Virgil waited to see the girl's nod, then quickly went back out to retrieve the exosuit and stowed it for the trip. When he came back into the bay, the girl was still laying on the bed, but silent tears were making muddy tracks on her face as she stared at the ceiling.

Virgil went to her, pulling off his helmet and clipping it to his baldric as he did so. He reached for the girl's hands and took them into his own, then disengaged one of his to smooth back the hair from her face. To his surprise, one more phrase popped into his head. "You're safe," he told her. "You're safe."

" _Xie xie_ ," she murmured, a smile touching the barest corners of her mouth. _Thank you._

Virgil nodded, unable to speak for the ache in his throat.

Many hours later, Virgil lay in bed, having been ordered there by Scott after landing. Despite the blackout shades on his windows and the tiredness in both body and mind, the pain in his heart would not let him sleep. He finally gave up and took himself, clad in iR teeshirt and sweatpants, down the stairs with blanket and pillow to the sunken lounge. There he settled, stretching out on the couch with the sounds of the house around him, and the tight knot in his gut finally began to unclench.

Footsteps approached, but he didn't move. "Sit up a little," ordered a voice from above his head, and the smell of bacon wafted over him as a tall frame folded itself onto the couch. Jean-clad legs slid under his head, and he laid back down to see the underside of a plate. The plate moved aside, revealing the upside-down face of his eldest brother, blue eyes searching his with brotherly concern. "Rough day," commented Scott.

"Yeah. Couldn't sleep."

"I'm sorry. You hungry?"

"No, I'm good. Thanks."

They sat in silence for a time while Scott ate his sandwich and Virgil drowsed. Then Virgil swam back up to awareness as he realized there were fingers carding themselves through his un-gelled hair, a palm smoothing the dark strands back from his forehead much as he himself had done for a small Chinese girl just a few hours before.

With a sigh, Virgil turned himself onto his side and buried his face in Scott's shirt, smelling detergent and the remnants of Scott's soap and _home_. Home, his safe place, his refuge, where Alan did homework and Gordon told bad jokes and Grandma folded laundry, where John showed him how to work the telescope and Kayo wiped the mat with him in their sparring sessions. Home, where Brains and the 'Birds roosted in safety, where he knew and was known.

"Shhhh," Scott whispered, gently stroking the back of his head, as he'd done years ago for a scared little brother awakened by nightmares. "Shhhh."

It was only then that Virgil realized he'd been crying, and raised his wet face from Scott's now-soggy shirt to his brother's face. "S-sorry," he hiccoughed.

The face above him was sad, but understanding. "Don't worry about it," Scott murmured. "Get some sleep."

And Virgil slept.


	26. Sensory Seeking

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a couple with their index fingers touching-as well as my husband, who has many of the same issues that John does.**_

 **Sensory Seeking**

 _Kayo knows the rules for John's personal space._

John does not like to be touched. It's a thing, and his family knows it.

However, they also know that if he goes too long without being touched, he withdraws, becomes snappish, distancing himself in more than physical proximity from those he loves. Because he does love them, even though it's hard for him to show it sometimes. Instead of the rowdy play-fights and sincere bear hugs the rest of his family uses to show their affection for one another, John shows it in the dedication he gives to his job, his readiness to leap into the fray every time, all the time.

This is one of the reasons that his suit is as tight as it is, Scott's jokes notwithstanding. It gives him that compression he needs, that feeling of safety, security. It's one of the reasons why he spends so much time in it, and why more than a few days in civvies begins to take its toll.

Kayo misses little, and her sharp eyes see John's distress often before his rough-and-tumble siblings do. She's seen him sitting as if the sofa is stuffed with rocks rather than plush upholstery, and tugging at the collar of his favorite shirt as if it's rubbing him raw. She's watched him plunge into the pool hours before the sun can heat it up, and she's walked past the bathroom when clouds of steam are rolling out from his scalding hot showers. She's helped Grandma tug his weighted blanket out of the washing machine and into the dryer.

So it is that one morning when he's practically vibrating with unease, every inch of him radiating the need to escape into his suit and silence and weightlessness, she refrains from putting her arms around him, when that's just what she wants to do. Instead, she points at him over the table, inching her index finger toward his.

" _Wonder twin powers_ ," she chants, and he grins, his relief almost palpable.

" _Activate_ ," he replies, as their fingertips touch.

It's a silly little ritual borne of childhood pleasures, but they both know it's her way of saying: _I see you. I know you. And I love you just the way you are._


	27. They Will Be Shown Mercy

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt, as well as some fanart by gentlebluelizard with the TOS crew side by side with the TAG crew.**_

 **For They Will Be Shown Mercy**

 _Scott receives a timely reminder: You are only human._

 _Blessed are the merciful,_

 _For they will be shown mercy._

 _-Matthew 5:7_

"Okay." Scott willed the shakiness in his voice to still, for the trembling of his exhausted body to stop. Just long enough for him to get to them, he could hold on thirty seconds, right? He'd done so countless times before, in simulation and real-time. He blinked sweat and double-vision away, and managed a brave smile. "Stay right there. I'm coming to get you."

Virgil was ten seconds out; he could feel the air beginning to vibrate with the rumble of the VTOLs even now. He dared not spare a glance for the beautiful green behemoth lining itself up into position behind him, but he knew she was there, just as he could feel her pilot's heart, its beats soaring and twinning with his own.

"Relax, Scotty," came the steady baritone voice in his ear. "We're in position."

His confidence at its usual high peak with his brothers around him, Scott let go of the grappling line, grunting as the rest of his body took his weight along the line of his belt and baldric. The anchor strap bit deep into his thigh; he knew when he peeled the uniform off, there would be a livid bruise three inches wide looping around his right leg.

He held out both hands to the woman clutching a child to her chest. His fingers were caked with dirt and one nail bore a bloody stain where he'd clawed at the hillside after a foothold gave way. He was pleased to note that his hands were steady. "It's okay, just hand him to me. That's right."

Then there was a squirming bundle in his arms, eyes button-bright in the dusty face. Scott cradled him carefully, suspended between heaven and earth, his pain forgotten as he gazed into the perfect little face. He'd done this four times before-well, once he'd been too little to remember but he'd seen pictures of the moment his mother had laid John in his lap-and the wonder was no less vivid than it had been all those years ago.

The whole exchange had taken less than ten seconds, but it was enough time for the earth to gather its strength for one last spasm of rebellion. In no time at all, the earth had flung off this presumptuous mosquito biting into it, and returned the favor by grabbing at him with hungry claws of gravity to draw him into its dusty maw.

Scott had a brief flash of scarred green metal, and a mother's horrified face. Virgil and John screamed in stereo. He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around the bundle, and let himself fall.

The next thing he saw was blue.

Sky blue. Although it wasn't the sky, unless the sky had suddenly gained a finely woven texture. He brought up a hand to touch it and found that it was cloth, dyed the color of a June afternoon. A hand came into his field of vision, lightly covering his own.

"Easy, kid," said a voice from above him. "You landed pretty hard."

A wave of relief washed over Scott. He hadn't fallen to his death, there must have been an outcropping on the sheared-away cliff face, or Virgil-yes, that was it, Virgil had maneuvered 'Two in that preternatural way he had, piloting the machine as an extension of himself, and scooped up-

A face swam into focus: Square jaw; high cheekbones; strong chin, heavy brows. Twin dimples, flashing deeper now that the face was smiling. The eyes were a clear, deep blue, and from the odd flicker in his chest, Scott was certain that those eyes could read the inside of his _soul_.

He found his voice and sent up the first question he could think of. "Who are you?"

The stranger-not-a-stranger smirked. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

The face above him remained calm as the man in the sky-blue garment _(uniform? Wasn't it a uniform?)_ helped him to a sitting position. Scott moved to shift the child-and realized with a sickening lurch that his arms were empty. He grabbed the man's uniform, twisting fistfuls of it and bringing its owner's face inches from his own. "Where's the baby?" he demanded.

"I don't know, Scott," the man said simply. "You didn't bring him with you."

It was several seconds before Scott realized he'd let go of the man's uniform blouse, though now he noticed the cloth wasn't dirty from being pawed by his filthy hands. In fact, his own hands were clean, as they had been that morning when he'd headed down the launch chute at the beginning of this terrible day.

Another delayed blow landed, pushing out another question: "How did you know my name?"

The man's smile returned. "Because that's _my_ name."

The world tilted on its axis and began to slide. "I don't... _wait._ Your _face_ -"

"Does it look familiar? It should." A self-deprecating grin. "You certainly spend enough time looking at it-or, to be more specific, the hair."

The newcomer was suddenly glad that he was already sitting, or he would have fallen flat on his ass. "You're-"

"You? Yes." The figure in sky blue, wearing a sleek, unadorned baldric of blue just a shade or two lighter than that of his uniform, raised his head to search the sunset horizon. "And you're me."

"Alternate universe," the newcomer babbled. "Parallel dimension. Turn of the wheel."

A shrug; another skewering glance from those eyes. "Different names for the same thing."

"I'm dead, I guess." It hadn't been how he'd wanted to go out, not exactly, but the pain and fear had been minimal, his brothers had been around him, he'd been doing what he loved-all in all, he supposed it wasn't a bad way to go. He hoped his body had cushioned the fall for the baby, and that Virgil and Gordon had retrieved the others. God, he missed his brothers already.

"No, I don't think so." The boots, dyed to match except for the cuffs keyed to his sash color, clicked against the floor as the other settled with his back against the wall. "I don't think I am, either."

The newcomer drew his knees up, feeling his suit flex around him, and rested his elbows on his knees. "So...why then?"

"I think the universe decided we needed a professional consultation."

Yikes, did he _really_ sound that prissy, that know-it-all? No wonder Gordon wanted to punch him on a regular basis. "Wanna run that by me one more time?"

"I mean," said the man in the candy-colored sash, "you need to ask a question. I'm probably the one person who can answer it, so here we are."

The newcomer found he was beginning to get a headache. "Okay, so: My big question is: How do I get out of here?"

"Hm." The sky-blue arms crossed over the sash. "No idea, so that must not be it. Next question."

"Is Dad alive?"

"Yes, but I think you knew that all along. Try again"

Great, two strikes already. "Is Thunderbird One better than all the other 'Birds?"

"Of course." No hesitation.

The newcomer grinned. "Hell, you really _are_ me."

The other said nothing, but flashed his eyebrows in bemused agreement.

Half-gloved hands raked through hair just a shade lighter than that of his doppel. "Uhhm, okay. Think. What's my _big_ question…"

"What happened today, Scott?" The voice was his and not his, with a lilt at the end of the words, a military snap almost. "What's your question?"

The newcomer cast his mind back over the events of the day. Earthquake, rocks falling, shuddering Ecuadorian hillside, mud and brightly dyed wool and cold that bit into his suit. Helmet on against the high altitude, though the frightened folks huddled into a tight knot-rattled from their bus, which succumbed to gravity on the already treacherous roadway-seemed not to be bothered by the thinner air of the Andes. "I hope they're all okay," he murmured. "I tried to save them, but-"

The other waited patiently-a most un-Scott like trait, but this was an odd situation, so it was just par for the course.

"Last week, there was the apartment building fire in Rio," the newcomer recounted. "We lost two-the smoke, you know, it was so thick. And about a month ago, the cave-in at the mine in Virginia. The guy who called it in never made it out; he was too deep for us to get to him in time."

Something was happening, something bad was pushing against him, wanting to break free, held in check by his tight rein. _A question_ , the other had said. There was a question at the end of this that only his mirror-twin could answer. If only this dread would let up just a fraction to let him _think_ , maybe he'd get somewhere.

"It wakes you up in the middle of the night, doesn't it," said the other, not a question.

"Not just _me,_ " the newcomer countered. "We all bring it home from time to time."

The eyes pierced him to the marrow. "What's your question for me, Scott?"

His own eyes went to cerulean slits. "Does it matter? If you're me then that means you don't have the answers either." He struggled to his feet. "Kinda feels like this is a waste of time."

There it was again, that bad thing, pushing pushing _pushing, let me out let me out-_

"Don't try to hold it back." The eyes, reading his soul, the touch of the known and unknown. "Neither of us are that strong."

The newcomer scoffed. "I got nothin'."

No answer, just those eyes, that face.

What was it his father had said, that the harshest critic was the man in the mirror? That memory brought on a thread of melody, sung in his mother's soprano, echoing over the years:

 _I'm starting with the man in the mirror_

 _I'm asking him to change his ways_

 _And no message could've been any clearer_

 _If you wanna make the world a better place_

 _Take a look at yourself and make the change_

Yes. There was indeed a question. All the bad pushed to the surface, like an infected wound needing to be lanced so the healing could begin.

A moment earlier, he'd wanted to scream, but now the words came out barely above a whisper. "How do you deal with this guilt?"

The other smiled faintly, studying his sky-blue boot tops. "You remember that you can't save everyone, but you still have to try. If I give it my all then I need to accept that I couldn't do any more. I am not limitless."

 _I need to accept I couldn't do any more._ No, there was always more...wasn't there? Beyond the fatigue, beyond the pain, beyond the limits of his own self-

 _I am not limitless._

There was understanding in those eyes now; commiseration and a shared burden. The figure in sky-blue reached out a hand. "Fight the good fight."

The other reached back. "But know when to stop."

Between one heartbeat and the next, the hillside was back, and the only blue above him was that of sky. Something wriggled in his arms; the child, safe and unharmed, yawning and stretching. As Scott watched, the tiny face scrunched-and let out a sneeze.

Virgil was calling his name, helmet coming into view as the bigger man hung over the cliff edge. "You two okay?" He yelled down.

"Yeah, we're okay."

Relief wiped the worry from Virgil's face. "Fire your magnet grapple at 'Two's belly, we'll pull you up."

Scott did so, and tugged to ensure a good connection. "How's everyone else?"

"They're good, we got them." His brother grinned. "You're in big trouble though," Virgil warned.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. The kid's mom says he's too young to go rock climbing with you."

Scott let out a laugh. "I'm sorry I didn't ask permission first."

 _I have to accept that I gave it my all._

 _I am not limitless._

As 'Two gently lifted them from their cliffside aerie, Scott smiled down at the baby. "Call me in about ten years," he murmured. "I'll show you how it's done-but ask your mom first, okay?"

The baby smiled.

-End-


	28. Basket Case

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt about an extrovert and an introvert trying to be roomies.**_

 **Warning for mention of social anxiety/sensory processing disorder/stimming.**

 **Basket Case**

 _Scott asks John to room with Alan for a while during Alan's freshman year at MIT. Trouble ensues._

"Just go check on them," Scott had said. Virgil didn't think two grown men (well, one grown man and an eighteen-year-old freshman) needed checking on, but Scott was Scott and he was their team leader for a reason, so Virgil went.

Now, as he watched John enter the café, moving like a man of eighty rather than one of twenty-four, Virgil understood just why Scott had insisted.

"Hey, Jaybird," Virgil breezed, although his first impulse had to been to leap to his feet and take John's elbow to ease him into the booth. "How's it goin', spaceman?"

"I'm going to kill him, Virg," John replied.

As an opening line, this was a stunner, and Virgil would admit later that he just sat and looked at John for a good ten seconds. "Uh, okay. Can you elaborate there just a bit for me, Johnny?"

"The only time that child is quiet is when he's got his mouth full or when he's asleep," John supplied, looking for all the world that he might huddle in on himself and begin rocking. This was truly alarming; Virgil hadn't seen John stim in years, not since they were kids, and just the threat of it made Virgil's spine crawl.

"I think I've been up in 'Five too long," he continued, almost to himself. "I've forgotten what you're all like, day in and day out." He sighed and fiddled with the silverware at his elbow, lining up the tines of the fork with the edge of the napkin. "I know Scott wanted me to hang around and see that he gets settled in at MIT, show him the ropes, keep him out of trouble, all that, but-" he raised a tortured turquoise gaze to that of his next-youngest-sibling. "Virgil, I love that kid, but I'm going crazy in that apartment. I thought I could handle this, but I need to get back to work."

Virgil's heart melted. If there was one thing he heard loud and clear, it was the call for help from one of his brothers, both on- and off-mission. "I can see that." He moved aside the pyramid of creamers John had built between them and gave John's wrist a squeeze. "Scott sent me to check on you two, and I'll make a case for you to get the heck outta Dodge."

John's relief was as real as the taste of Arabica in Virgil's cup. "Thanks, Virg," he breathed. "I appreciate that."

Virgil sent John off to the library to pass a few quiet hours, and pulled out his phone to send a text to his baby brother. _Hey Al, need to talk w/you, stat._ _U kno Yellow Sub café Ocean St?_

He'd barely put the phone down when the message pinged: _Sure do big V be right there need 2 talk w/u too haha_

Virgil raised an eyebrow at this, but refrained from further comment and instead ordered a venti soy hot chocolate, plus a refill of his own unadorned cup and sat back to await the arrival of the young rocketeer.

College seemed to agree with Alan, who arrived proudly adorned in his very own MIT sweatshirt, his blue eyes bright, his cheeks pink and full. Virgil relaxed just a little; if Alan had shambled in looking just as big a mess as John, he'd have gathered them both into 'Two, hied them back to the island, and let Scott sort it out.

"How's it going, Al?" Virgil rose and stuck out his hand, _we're men now_ , but reeled back a half-step as Alan practically flung himself at his older brother. "Glad to see you too, kiddo." He gestured at the steaming drink. "My treat."

"Wow, you remembered!" Alan settled into the seat with a bounce and took a tentative slurp from the cup. "Not as good as the ones you make, but it's close."

Virgil inclined his head graciously at the compliment, then crossed his arms over his broad chest and fixed the blond with a level amber gaze. He opened his mouth, and–

"Virg, you gotta tell Scotty that John needs to go home." Alan's smooth brow puckered. "I'm so worried about him, I can't study, I can't concentrate in class, I can't–well, _I_ can sleep, but John _can't_ , and I'm really, _really_ worried about him."

It was on the tip of Virgil's tongue to say _Yeah, I know, I saw_ , but he decided to try another tactic instead. "Scott just wanted to make sure you were gonna be okay over here," he countered. "It's your first time away from home without any of us, and you know how Scotty is."

"Yeah, I know. He thinks he has to be Dad," Alan agreed, lowering his gaze to the scarred tabletop, drink forgotten between his hands. "But really, John's miserable. Yeah, we're the space nerds, but we're _different_. John's super quiet, and I'm…not." He glanced up at Virgil, and the elder's heart flipped at seeing the wisdom behind those windows of pure blue. "I know he'd stay if I asked, but–this is killing him. Yeah, I'll miss you guys, but watching John fall apart is killing _me_."

There was nothing else to say to that. Virgil sat and looked at the youngest Tracy, the last to step up and fill the over-large shoes that had come before him, and felt his heart nearly burst with pride. _I wish you could see him, Dad._

"Don't worry, Al," he heard himself say past the lump in his throat. "We'll get it all straightened out. If you're sure," he said, a last double-check in the offing.

"I'll be fine," Alan reassured him. "It's not like I'll be on Mars or anything." He grinned. "Besides, Mars is great, but they don't have girls."

Virgil returned Alan's grin, and held out his mug to tap Alan's cup in a toast. Yes, Alan–and soon John, too–would be just fine.

–End–


	29. Early Days

_**AN: Inspired by fanart by redemsi, where the guys are packing heat in the style of 'Kingsman'. This version of Kyrano is inspired by tb5_heavenward's portrayal of him in her 'Heavenward' series.**_

 **Early Days**

 _When International Rescue first gets started, there are many details to work out...some more important than others._

"I think we should carry."

Jeff raises an eyebrow at Scott's words, and shoots a glance over at Kyrano. "You do, huh?"

Scott shrugs. "Yeah. I mean, just for protection."

John snorts. "Not for some cowboy James Bond fantasy you have, couldn't be that."

"Just because I'm a better shot than you," Scott retorts.

Gordon makes finger-guns and aims them at his eldest brother. "Ol' One-Shot Scott," he quips, and a laugh splutters from Virgil as Scott's cheeks go scarlet.

Ben Kyrano slides off the corner of Jeff's desk, undoing the well-worn holster from around his shoulders as he does. He holds it out to Scott, who blinks in surprise. "Let's try it out."

Scott glances at his father, but Jeff's face is calm, unconcerned, and entirely unhelpful. After a moment of hesitation, Scott takes the holster and awkwardly straps it around his torso. Kyrano steps up and helps the young man tighten it so the gun is snugged close under Scott's left arm. When Kyrano moves away, Scott is standing a little uneasily, as if someone has given him a hand grenade to put in his pocket.

"Now draw," directs the bodyguard. "One smooth motion. And don't depress the trigger while you're grabbing for it, rookie, unless you want to be breathing out of your ribs."

This makes the other three boys in the room stiffen, but their father hasn't moved, so they subside, eyes locked on Scott.

And so Scott complies: Reach, pull, out and aimed, with no accidents. The Beretta is steady in his hand, and a smile touches his lips, like a puppy who's learned a new trick.

Gordon hoots in approval. "Wow, that was _so cool_."

Ben nods at Scott. "Put it back and do it again–faster this time. You need a split-second reaction for this."

Scott obeys, settling the pistol back in its place on the first try. He relaxes, takes a deep breath, and reaches–

Instantly, Kyrano is in motion, one hand grabbing Scott's arm and twisting it up and behind him, the other neatly plucking the gun out of Scott's right hand and shoving the barrel under Scott's jaw from behind. "How's _this_ , rookie?" He snarls in Scott's ear. Then he points the gun at Virgil, whose jaw drops open. "Or _this?_ "

" _Dad!"_ Gordon shouts, but Kyrano points the gun at him and he freezes. John alone has stayed still, though his eyes are wide and his freckles are vivid against his pale face.

Jeff gets to his feet and puts his hand on Kyrano's shoulder. "I think they get the message, Ben."

Kyrano immediately lowers the gun and unstraps the holster from Scott's vibrating frame, then proceeds to refit it for himself.

Virgil is the first to untwist enough to take a step towards the two older men. "What the _fuck_ was that?" He blurts.

Jeff, who usually is intolerant of swearing, doesn't chide his middle son. "That, son, is reality. The people we rescue are on edge, frightened, possibly unstable. You say we should be armed for our protection–but who's going to protect _you_?"

Kyrano touches Scott's arm gently. "What your father is trying to say is that International Rescue is not law enforcement. We don't want anyone taking any unnecessary chances. Understand?"

Scott turns to look at Kyrano, his face solemn and his blue eyes grave. "Yessir. We won't mention this again."

Later, Jeff joins Kyrano on the lanai, cigar and brandy in hand, watching the waves as Kyrano finishes a cigarette.

"I'm sorry about that," Kyrano ventures, letting the smoke rush from him on the sea breeze.

"No," says Jeff, swirling the content of his glass. "It was an effective lesson."

Kyrano crushes the butt out on the railing and drops it into his soda can. "Think they'll ever speak to me again?"

Jeff chuckles. "Maybe with a little more–"

"Trepidation?"

"Healthy respect."

Kyrano nods. "I can live with that."

"More importantly, so will they."


	30. Lightweight

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a recipe for Strawberry Rose' slushies, as well as summertime, and in a bit of homage to tb5_heavenward's garden party fic, 'An Elegant Escapade.'**_

 **Lightweight**

 _In which John Tracy proves you can't take him anywhere._

John flopped down on the garden bench beside Virgil, sprawling in a manner that belied his smart cream linen suit. Virgil, who had taken A Moment to indulge in the rare pleasure of a cigar, eyed him through a rich puff of smoke.

"Sure John, I don't mind, have a seat why don't you?" The pilot muttered.

"Ugh, I hate parties," John groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his forehead. "Plus it's hot."

"It's called 'summer,' Jay." Virgil tapped some ashes to the gravel and stirred them with the toe of his shoe. "I don't know what you're complaining about; it gets hotter than this at home, and a hell of a lot more humid."

"You forget that I spend the bulk of my life in a climate-controlled environment," John countered. "I had a few of the slushies Penny had on that table, but they went fast in this heat."

Virgil choked, and not entirely from the smoke. "A _few?_ How many is a _few?_ "

"I dunno. Four. I think. Gordon had one and didn't like it, so I finished it for him."

"John, those were made out of wine."

The astronaut opened one eye. "What? No, they were strawberry something or other. I _hate_ wine."

The pilot gave an uncharitable snort of laughter. "Maybe some strawberries in there somewhere, but still about 90% booze." He leaned over to peer at John's pupils. "You lightweight, no wonder you're freaking out."

John flipped him off. "Okay, Smokey. You get anywhere near Grandma with that stogie, she's gonna kill you."

Virgil held out a hand to John. "You don't tell, I won't tell. Agreed?"

John shook on it. "Agreed. Now help me up or I'll barf on your shoes."


	31. Breathe

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt, and partially as therapy after reading scribeofRED's 'a place where the water touches the sky'.**_

 **Breathe**

 _Gordon and Penny are running out of time._

"Come on, Pen," Gordon grits, cradling Penny's limp torso in one arm and trying—as gently as he can–to shove the rebreather in her face. "Just breathe for me. Come on, you can do it."

She's so beautiful, with her blonde hair fanning around them, her lovely face shimmering in the sun-dappled water. She lolls bonelessly against his shoulder, a faint trail of bubbles rising from the end of her tip-tilted nose.

Damnit. This is not working and the seconds are ticking by. If he doesn't do something quick, she'll be brain dead and that will _just fucking suck_ for all eternity.

In desperation, he rips off his helmet (later, he'll have no idea how he held on to her and yet performed this maneuver with one hand, but hey, who's he to question) and shoves it onto her head, still attached to the tank on his back. He drains the water, makes sure there's something of a seal around her slender neck so it doesn't flood again, and then shakes her. Well, waves her back and forth a few times, but it's as close as he can make it in twelve feet of water with seaweed around her ankles.

In just a few seconds, he sees her eyelids flutter. She coughs, spewing water from her nose into the bottom of the helmet, and her body jerks convulsively. Gordon grabs the wicked little blade from his belt and hacks at the entangling mess of green keeping her trapped, narrowly avoiding getting kicked in the head. Finally she's free, but to his horror, his vision is going grey around the edges. The water is cold, and he's exhausted, but it's okay because she's going to be all right. Her hands find the sides of his face, and now it's him who lolls in her embrace, a hazy smile on his bubbling lips.

Her mouth is moving and her eyes are wide with horror, but he's way, way too cold and tired to care. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is, but…

The next thing he knows, he is puking up what feels like every square foot of ocean in the Pacific, splattering her with noxious sea water and God knows what else. Somewhere, Virgil is hollering and John and Alan are yelling and Scott's hand is on his forehead as more Pacific Ocean spills over 'Two's diamond plate deck.

"Holy _shit_ , Gordon, don't you ever, _ever_ do that again, you idiot." His big brother is rambling, a torrent of invective running from him that's just as loathsome as what's streaming from his own mouth and nose, but Scott's voice is full of tears.

"Pen," Gordon croaks, as if this explains everything.

"I'm fine, dearest," she chimes, "thanks to you." Scott lets go so Gordon can sit back against the wall and bring Penny into view; she's wet and smells like a sewer, but damnit, she's alive. Someone has taken his gear off, so they're no longer connected by their yellow and black tethers.

" _You're so beautiful,"_ Gordon blurts. He's shaking so hard that his teeth are rattling in his skull, but she draws him close and tucks his head under her chin.

"Hush now," she soothes.


	32. The Giver

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of the shoes mentioned in this story.**_

 **The Giver**

 _Penny is invaluable to International Rescue, in all sorts of ways._

"I don't know about this," Kayo said, eyeing the box as if it might explode.

Penny, however, was undaunted. "Nonsense," she snorted, twisting this way and that to see her feet from all angles in the three-way mirror. "You deserve a present. You've been working much too hard and you could use some fun."

Kayo parted the tissue paper and withdrew a few scraps of leather attached to a…well, it technically was a sole, which in turn sported a stiletto heel of glittering, twisted gold. "And these are your idea of fun?"

Penny shucked off the electric-blue, crystal-studded Louboutins currently on her feet and carried them over to the two pairs sitting beside her handbag. "They're an absolute _riot_ ," she assured the pilot of Thunderbird Shadow. "Try them on."

So Kayo did. They weren't all that difficult to get on, and once she got used to the change of the center of gravity, the height was bearable. They weighed almost nothing, which was a plus, and best of all, they didn't pinch her toes. "Hmm," she mused, taking Penny's place before the mirror. "Not bad." She sighed and bent to unstrap the confections from her feet. "Unfortunately I haven't a single place to wear them."

When she straightened, Penny was standing before her, looking up at her from under her perfectly sculpted brows with a wicked, wicked smile. "Darling," she purred, "whoever said you needed to wear them _outside?"_

Kayo's eyebrows rose for a moment, then a grin just as wicked settled on her own face. "Why, your _Ladyship,_ " she breathed. "You have an absolute knack for low trickery."

"So you'll let me buy them for you?"

"Absolutely."

"I want a full report."

"All the lurid details."

Penny raised her head and waved the salesgirl over. "We'll take them."

As it happened, it took nearly the same amount of time for Kayo to get home from Paris as Thunderbird Two did from a Chilean rockslide. So it was that when Virgil came stumbling up the stairs and into his room, Kayo was waiting for him, seated with her legs thrown over the arm of his favorite chair.

She shifted, ensuring that her lithe body was displayed in just the right fashion to catch his tired gaze. It was nothing short of delicious, the way his amber eyes traveled from the messy chignon on the top of her head to the glittering twists of gold jutting from the soles of her scandalously expensive shoes. "Hello, _darling,_ " she drawled, as Virgil dropped his duffel bag in the doorway. "How was your day?"

"And he couldn't say a word?"

"Not a single one. Struck dumb as a door post for at least two minutes."

Penny threw back her head and laughed as she rarely did, enjoying Kayo's story as much as the dollop of chocolate hazelnut gelato in her cup. "That's _fabulous_ ," she snickered, popping the diminutive plastic spoon into her mouth. "What did I tell you? Worth every shilling."

Kayo grinned, then set aside her own cup of gelato to reach into her backpack. "This is for you–a little something from a grateful admirer." She pulled out an envelope made of thick, creamy paper embossed with 'VGT' in gilt on the flap, and handed it to Penny. The London agent set down her cup but kept her spoon in her mouth as she gently undid the flap and withdrew the heavy sheet of sketch paper inside. Unfolding the paper revealed a rough charcoal sketch of Kayo, posed elegantly in an overstuffed chair, wearing nothing but her shoes. Penny flushed and removed the spoon.

"This is _magnificent_ ," she breathed. "I should send this to a gallery."

"He made it pretty clear that this was for you," Kayo warned. "Still, I'll tell him you said that; he'll appreciate the compliment."

Penny looked at the sketch for a moment more, and then folded it away with reverent hands. "I love you both," she said simply. "In our business, we need to stay connected to one another. I hope my silly little present helped facilitate that, in some small fashion."

Kayo nodded. "It was perfect. Thank you, Penny. From both of us." Her smile gained a familiar naughty glimmer. "Although, I will warn you–turnabout's fair play, so don't you dare think for one minute that you and Gordon will escape unscathed." Kayo took another spoonful of her lemon gelato. "I'll strike when you least expect it."

Penny laughed again. "Oh, darling, I certainly hope so."


	33. Oops

_**AN: Inspired by the following prompt: "The powdered amethyst sat off to the side as he carefully stirred the labradorite into the cauldron. The soft mesh of magic above the potion made sure that the stone melted evenly."**_

 **Oops**

 _With little brothers around, accidents will happen…_

Virgil hummed quietly to himself, using the tune as a rhythm to stir at a consistent rate of speed. The book in front of him, written in his mother's hand, made a particular point of the importance of keeping the mixture moving–but not too fast.

The door to his tower room shook under a torrent of bangs, and the tune faltered for just a moment. "Go away, busy," he sing-songed over his shoulder, keeping the staff moving in the sludgy cauldron. The mixture was just beginning to glow, and he smiled to himself; it was working just as the grimoire said it would. If he could just keep it up–

The door crashed open, and Virgil whirled to face the intruder: Gordon, his cheeks pink from his headlong dash up the spiral staircase. His yellow robes had slid off of one shoulder to reveal the bright blue tunic beneath, as usual. "Virgil!" he shouted. "You gotta come see–"

Unfortunately, when Virgil had turned, the end of the staff caught the beaker of amethyst, upending the fine violet powder into the bubbling pot. "Ah, damnit," he swore, as the mixture began to splutter. He reached for the counter-agent, but he was too late: The cauldron heaved and suddenly his emerald robes were covered in thick purple-grey goop, as was most of the room. Virgil wiped the muck off his face and took two steps toward Gordon. " _Come here, you little–"_

Gordon yelped and fled. Virgil watched him go, then sighed and retrieved his wand from a mound of purple sludge. "Okay, let's start over." He raised the wand overhead and said one clear word: " _Detergeo."_

With a shower of emerald sparks, the violet muck disappeared. With another, longer sigh, Virgil righted the cauldron and began the spell again.


	34. Legal Addictive Stimulants

_**AN: Inspired by the following prompt: "Ever wonder how you will die?" "I know how I'm gonna die. Drinking too much coffee and vibrating out of existence."**_

 **Legal Addictive Stimulants**

 _For the Tracys, coffee isn't a beverage; it's a way of life._

Alan wrinkled his holographic nose at Virgil, managing to look petulant from two hundred fifty miles above. "I don't get why you guys like that stuff," he groused. "Although, if it tasted like it smelled, I'd be just as much of an addict as you guys are, I guess."

"Y'see, Al," Virgil began, unscrewing the lid of the thermal flask and topping up his shiny metal cup, "it's not that we _like_ it. Coffee is…it's…" He swung to include John in his oration, turning to where the redhead leaned back against 'Two's bulkhead. "What's coffee, Jaybird?"

"Life," John answered, opening one sea-green eye. "Coffee is what makes life possible."

Beside John, Gordon snored like a congested grizzly, sprawled as awkwardly as the restraints would allow. The noise woke Scott, who had been dozing in the copilot's seat with his arms folded across his chest.

"Bzuh?" spluttered their Field Commander, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth. "Coffee?"

Virgil blew over the rim of his cup. "Go back to sleep, Scotty."

"Hmm." In less than thirty seconds, Scott's chin had lowered gently back down to his chest, head swaying with the subtle movements of 'Two's engines.

Virgil retrieved Scott's empty cup, filled it and handed it back to John, who leaned forward to bathe his freckled face in the steam. "I forget how strong your coffee is." John took a scalding mouthful, his turquoise irises snapping wide. " _Wow._ It might even wake Gordon up."

Virgil huffed a tired chuckle. "Don't spill any; it'll leave pits in the deck." He sighed and double-checked the autopilot to make sure they were still on course. "You know what that guy asked me today, the one we winched out of the collapsed mine? He asked me if I'd ever wondered how I was gonna die." Virgil shook his head. "What a question, huh?"

John tossed back the cupful of black sludge. "I know how _I'm_ gonna die," he quipped darkly. "Drinking too much coffee and vibrating out of existence."

Virgil locked eyes with his elder brother, who had suddenly turned a guilty shade of red. "Sorry, that was…" John rubbed a gloved hand over his face, grimacing at the sound of emerging ginger stubble. "Sorry. M'just tired, I guess."

Virgil held out the thermal flask. "More coffee?"

John looked at his empty cup for a moment, then held it out. "Yes, please."


	35. The Infinity Castle

_**AN: I'm a big fan of TRON and TRON: Legacy. It was only a matter of time before this happened.**_

 **The Infinity Castle**

 _John and EOS are going to play a game...whether they want to or not._

The light from the scanner was bright, but John fought the impulse to raise his hand and shade his eyes. "Ow," he muttered under his breath, squinting.

"Almost done," EOS chirped. "Keep still. We want the scan to be precise."

John snorted. "Of course. Can't have a glitchy game avatar."

The blue light abruptly turned an angry red, and this time John couldn't help snatching his hand up to his face, precision be damned. The speakers gave a shriek of feedback, and EOS' camera arm flailed side to side, like a swimmer trying to shake off a leech.

"UGH! _Get out!_ " she snarled. "No! _No!_ You're not allowed in there!"

"EOS, what's going on?" The light seemed to be everywhere John turned, lancing like hot needles into his skull. He pressed both hands against his eyes and took a few stumbling steps forward in the direction of the scanner.

"I remember _you_ ," EOS babbled, "and _you're not welcome!_ Get out!" Still she flailed, and the speakers shrilled and whined. Something snapped and buzzed, showering John with sparks. The station seemed to reverberate with her scream. " _Leave! Me! Alone!"_

"EOS!" Under the suit, his skin was on fire; he had to get to his helmet and to the emergency life support override. "What's happening?"

Her scream continued, even more incoherent as the seconds ticked by. "Get away from him! Leave him alone! John, _run!_ "

There was nowhere he could go, but the desperation in her voice jolted him into motion. He knew his station well enough to know where the obstacles were, but something seemed to reach up and trip him, sending him flying headlong. He steeled himself for impact–

–and it did not come.

His eyes popped open of their own accord, but the light was gone. Panic seized him; had he been blinded? He blinked furiously, and a wave of relief washed over him as he realized he could see. A vast plain of squares marked in glowing lines of pure white light stretched out before him.

 _I'm flying,_ the thought dawned in his scrambled cortex. _No, I'm_ _**falling**_.

The squares of the plain were gaining more detail now, textured with a rainbow of pinpoint lights, as if the stars had come to rest on the ground. All above him was pure black, but on the surface below him every hill and valley glimmered to life with waves of luminescence. A clutch of shapes that looked like a city came into view, buildings stacked atop each other like blocks and curved vehicles trailing swaths of light as they motored along wide smooth roads.

Gravity tugged at him, pulling him ever nearer to the ground. Wherever this was, the rules of normal physics still applied, which meant landing without a chute or a jetpack was going to hurt-if he survived.

John wondered what the inside of his brain would look like splattered on the gleaming surface below. Would it shimmer with a thousand colors as his electrical impulses flared and died away? Would he join that column of light soaring into the darkness in the distance?

 _So close now._ The faces of his brothers flashed before him. He closed his eyes–

–and once again, impact did not come.

Well, it did, but from above instead of below. Something extraordinarily sharp and painful was poking him. His eyes flew open, and for a moment his jaw dropped in shock.

"Get up," snarled a voice from the figure looming over him. Limned in red, the figure was humanoid in appearance, though it wore bulky armor that made its shoulders and head into a threatening-looking wedge atop a strong torso and powerful legs. Its hands were covered in heavy gloves, and it was holding a long pole that gleamed with hot brilliance at one end. The figure– _a soldier? A guard?_ –jabbed the pole at John, sending a blast of searing pain up John's thigh.

"Stop that if you want me to get up, asshat," John growled. "Where the hell am I?"

Two more of the red-lit wedges on legs sauntered over, their own poles gleaming with menace. "This program is out of line," one of them pronounced. "Think he escaped from the Games?"

"Probably," said the third. "Come on, you. On your feet. You better pray to the Users that we can get you back before The Sentinel notices."

John's eyes narrowed. "Who's this 'Sentinel'? And I'm not going anywhere until you tell me where I am!"

"You're on the Grid," the second soldier informed him smugly. "We're taking you back to the Games."

"Games?" John scrambled backwards, his eyes fastened on the three glowing rods. "I don't understand."

"Oh, you will, program," replied the soldier who had shocked him. "It's where the Sentinel sends useless bits like you to die."

An icy bolt of terror shot down John's spine. "EOS," John shouted. "EOS, end simulation!"

Everything remained as it was. The ice in his spine spread into his body, choking him with cold dread. " _EOS,"_ he whispered.

At John's words, all three of the guards went still. "Where did you learn that name?" demanded one.

It was getting very hard to think, but John dragged in a deep breath of whatever passed for oxygen here. "She's a sentient AI," he babbled. "I created her. She's…my friend. We were playing a game. She was scanning me…" His voice trailed off as his brain groped for a connection. Could he have _digitized_ himself? Impossible, and yet-

The soldiers took a step backwards. "You're a User?" one of them asked, his voice hushed, but in horror or awe, John couldn't tell. "You created The Princess?"

One of the three wasn't buying it. "He's glitched. No one created Her." The capital letter was unmistakable.

"'Princess?'" John echoed. "Is that what you call EOS?"

To his astonishment, the soldiers touched the fingers of their right hands to their left shoulders, as if in some sort of salute. The gesture pinged with familiarity against John's brain; he'd made that gesture hundreds of times, tapping the iR logo on his baldric. " _Yes,"_ he breathed, the panic draining away as a few more pieces clicked into place. "Do you know E–er, the Princess? Where is she? Can you take me to her?"

One soldier pointed toward the column of lilac-hued light that soared into the black expanse. "There, in the Infinity Castle," the soldier intoned. "Beyond the Grid, across the Data Sea. The Sentinel holds her prisoner."

"You'd have to take a Solar Sailer to get there," added another. "Not that a mere program like you could ever get aboard one."

John frowned. "Why not?"

"The Sentinel controls the grid," said a third. "Programs go to the Games. If you survive, he assimilates you, adds your functions to his. Losers are derezzed on the spot." All three repeated the gesture toward their shoulders, warding off the 'evil eye' of their world.

John cast his gaze toward the tower of light. "I have to get to the castle," he muttered, more to himself than the other three. "Hopefully my princess isn't in a different one."


	36. Fire in the Soul

_**AN: Magic!au. Note: Scott can fly/manipulate air and create storms. Gordon can manipulate water and talk to aquatic creatures. John is a healer and can summon light. Virgil is telekinetic. Alan-well, read on.**_

 _ **Inspired by the prompt: "He stared at his hand in wonder as the fire pressed against his skin, blazing bright blue."**_

 **Fire in the Soul**

 _Alan gets the surprise of his life._

"Uh," Alan said, eyes wide. "Scotty–"

Scott grinned. "So you're our firebug," he quipped, soaring over to land gently at his youngest brother's side. "See what you can do with it."

Alan thought a moment, then raised his palm and blew gently across his fingers. Streams of blue flame shot across the deck, only to fall into the pool with a hiss. "Wow," he breathed. Then he straightened and whirled, aiming a finger at the hot dog Gordon was just about to shove into his mouth. The bun immediately burst into flame, and Gordon shrieked and dropped it on the concrete.

"Dammit, Al! You nearly singed my eyebrows off!" Gordon's hand flashed out and pulled a sparkling stream from the pool, effectively dousing the flaming sausage, but having little effect on his temper. He grabbed up the platter of cold hot dogs and marched up to Alan. "You think you're so smart, _you're_ on grill duty now."

Alan laughed. "Okay." He swiped his fingers across the hot dogs, leaving behind dark, smoking stripes and sizzling meat. "Is that better?"

"Hell yeah it is!" Gordon retrieved a bun from the table and folded it around a hot dog, then took a bite. "Not bad," he mumbled around the mouthful.

Virgil gestured to the platter, which lifted from Gordon's hands and settled back onto the table. "Let's put these someplace safer than in the hands of our walking vacuum cleaner," he said, chuckling. "John, you about got those torches going?"

With a ball of golden light hovering over his shoulder, the second-born stuck the last tiki torch into the sand with a grunt. He surveyed his work, then dissolved the light with a snap of his fingers. "I think this is your cue, Alan."

"Yeah!" Alan jumped onto a chair so he could see the semi-circle of torches on the beach, then raised a hand and swept it from right to left. With a cry of triumph, he watched as each torch burst into a cheery flame.


	37. The Shadow and the Earthquake

_**AN: Part of the magic!au. Sexy stuff ahead, though more suggestive rather than explicit. Note: Kayo can manipulate light/dark, and has an affinity with crows and ravens. Virgil is telekinetic**_.

 **The Shadow and the Earthquake**

 _The love Virgil and Kayo share is nothing short of magical._

Kayo's touch was the flick of green-black feathers, of wings whispering in the dark of the moonlit night. Virgil threw his head back as she slipped her fingers up his chest and the side of his neck, under his chin and back down around his massive shoulder.

"I missed you," he muttered, bringing a smile to her lips. He lowered his chin to gaze up at her, and caught her hand with his. He brushed a kiss along her knuckles, then turned his face into her palm and let his tongue linger on her skin.

"I missed you, too." She let go of his hand, closing her eyes as he bracketed her narrow waist, purring as his touch continued down over the curve of her hips. She straddled him with sleek thighs, and the purr became a full-on panther growl as his fingers dug into her smooth flanks. With a slow exhale, Kayo tipped forward to ply her tongue in hot flutters to his breastbone.

"God, Kay," Virgil growled back, and the air shifted around them like a roll of distant thunder. The bed swayed a little, and Kayo smirked; when Virgil made love to her, the earth really _did_ move.

With a deft movement of his hips, he was inside her, and she gasped in surprise and delight. The candle flames flickered, painting them both in splashes of light and dark. Virgil groaned and so did the walls, the stone and mortar creaking as he pushed deeper into her.

If anyone had been there to notice, they would have seen the concentric ripples in the wine glasses on the table. They might have heard the rustling of wings high in the rafters, indistinguishable from the breath rushing from Kayo's throat. If anyone had approached the cottage, they would have felt the ground rumbling and seen the leaves on the trees trembling as the pair inside soared into ever higher throes of ecstasy. However, no one would dare approach, especially after the mistress of the shadows and the earth-mover had been apart for any length of time.

Wrapping them in a curtain of starlight, Kayo leaned forward and sent a stream of hot words into Virgil's ear, eliciting another, longer groan from deep in his chest. The pace of his movements ticked upwards a fraction, and she steadied herself with hands on his shoulders to keep up. The rumbling grew louder, but neither one paid any attention; they had learned just how far they could go before Virgil tore the place apart stone by stone.

The candle flames danced again, wax tumbling like viscous tears from their guttering tops. "Nnnnnggh," Virgil ground out, eyes squeezed shut and his hands pushing her molten center down around him until he could take no more. With a final bellow and a noisy roll of earth, Virgil let himself go. The glasses trembled and tipped on their sides, spilling the dregs of the wine onto the floor.

In no time at all, dripping sweat and hair coming down to frame her face in curling wisps, Kayo threw her head back and shouted her lover's name to the stars.

Outside, a flock of crows that had been roosting in a tree took to flight in a burst of midnight feathers. Inside, the lovers curled into each other. There were a few bleary kisses, a few sleepy mumbles of shared affection, and then all was quiet.

Soon, the crows came back to the tree on soundless wings, settling into sleep as the moon sailed high above.


	38. False Advertising

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt: "Find your most recent shopping list (or to-do list, or any kind of list) and write a story where someone interacts with the items on the list for completely different reasons than you did." Also: Apologies to 'Dave's Killer Bread,' it's actually really good.**_

 **False Advertising**

 _Gordon tags along on a shopping trip, much to Virgil's chagrin._

"'Dave's Killer Bread.'" Gordon plucked a plastic-wrapped loaf off the shelf and examined its seeded exterior. "What about it makes it 'killer,' exactly?"

Virgil pushed the laden cart along the aisle. "Dunno. Buy a loaf and find out."

"What if it IS killer, tho?" Gordon continued his musing, the loaf still in his hands. "Like, if someone slipped you a mickey using it, then it might be, I guess."

"Uh huh." Virgil added a package of bagels to the cart.

"Or if you were gluten intolerant, it might be considered 'killer' bread."

"Well you're not, so there's little chance of that," Virgil murmured, scrolling through the list on his phone. "Did we get aluminium foil?"

Gordon considered the artwork on the front. "This guy Dave looks pretty cool, maybe he's good with chicks–a 'lady killer,' and if you eat–"

Gordon smacked into Virgil's flannel-clad back. "Uh, beep beep, blocking traffic, big guy."

Virgil turned to glare at his younger brother, then grabbed the loaf of bread and tossed it in the cart.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, but what'd you do that for?"

"You're going to eat this when we get home," Virgil answered, and continued to push the cart.

"Uhh, okay."

"And," Virgil added, "If you're not dead by the time the last slice is gone, I'm gonna sue for false advertising."

Gordon's jaw dropped open. "Dude, _harsh_."

Virgil shook his head. "At least I wouldn't have to go shopping with you anymore, you nerd."


	39. The Houseguest

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of the room (and dog) in question.**_

 **The Houseguest**

 _Sometimes, not everyone is enthusiastic about houseguests._

 _Finally,_ thought Scott.

Here he was, in the plain but pretty bedroom of Cindy Lowell, and after months of flirting and several expensive dates, he was finally close to tasting some sweet, sweet loving. It had been far too long, and several essential parts of him were aching for a sympathetic and gentle touch.

"Make yourself comfortable," she'd purred, after wine and long, slow kisses on the couch. "I'll be right back."

He'd let her go with stars in his eyes. "Mmm, don't be long," he'd volleyed back, his jeans way too tight and his shirt unbuttoned by her skillful fingers. He'd watched her leave the room, following her pert swaying ass and lovely long legs in their skinny jeans, her own shirt dangling from her fingertips, and mentally congratulated himself on finessing his way into her good graces. The old Tracy charm was still in business.

He'd finished his glass of excellent wine, downed another few cashews, and stretched lazily before sauntering off to the bedroom. Now he was here, and proceeded to do as directed– get comfortable. He draped his shirt over a chair, then shucked off his jeans and socks. He was preparing to lose the boxers when he turned–and saw a dog.

A small dog. A small black and white dog, with large ears.

At first, he was a pug, like Sherbet, but then Scott looked closer. No, this was a Boston terrier or a French bulldog. He wasn't versed in canine identification well enough to pin it down. The dog looked at him. He looked at it.

"Hey, buddy," he ventured, after a brief visual inspection to affirm that yes, the beast was male. "Your momma is awful cute, huh?"

Answer gave the dog none, except to lick his lips wetly.

Scott leaned down and offered his hand for the dog to sniff. "I'm a friend," Scott cooed. The dog backed up and began to growl, and Scott snatched his hand back.

Just then, Cindy came through the bathroom door, naked and gorgeous, carrying a bowl of strawberries and a can of whipped cream. "Hey, handsome, why aren't you na–ohhh, you met Bowser!" She put the bowl and can aside and picked up the dog. "Are you two making friends?"

Scott gave a weak laugh. "Well I think we got off on the wrong foot, but we're cool."

"Awww." She snuggled the dog a moment more, then put him outside the room. "Time for grownups to have fun now," she told him. "All baby doggies go play." She shut the door, then turned and leaned against it. "Now, where were we?"

The next morning, Scott woke up alone in Cindy's bed–well, not precisely alone. Bowser was there, too, sitting on a note. Scott reached for it, hesitating when Bowser growled.

"Easy, easy boy, I just need to–" he grabbed for the note and wrenched it free, narrowly missing getting nipped by Bowser's teeth. He read the note with a smile, grinning at her words of praise and a promise of things to come.

Scott rolled over to face the dog, who was looking at him with a dubious expression. "Well, buddy, we should try and get along, since we might be seeing quite a bit of each other."

The dog quirked his head at this very different-smelling human. Bowser looked at the outstretched hand, and slowly got up and licked one of the fingers.

Scott stayed still, watching Bowser, not making any sudden moves, letting the snorty nose sniff all the way up his arm and up to his face. Then Bowser was in his face, anointing him with sloppy doggy kisses, and Scott laughed.

Just then, Cindy came back into the room, dressed in a pretty spring frock with a market bag over her shoulder. "Well, I guess you two are getting along," she mused.

"Yeah, we came to an… understanding."

Cindy dropped her bag and joined the two on the bed. "Soooo I guess that means we'll be seeing more of you?"

Scott grinned and gathered her in for a kiss. "Now that I've gotten permission from the important folks around here, I'd say that's a yes."


	40. Minute by Minute

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a broad-shouldered man from the back, with a woman's hand resting on his shoulder. Little bit of implied sexy stuff. I always seem to write Scott as a bit of a player!**_

 **Minute by Minute**

 _A night out leads to a chance encounter with a handsome stranger..._

She knows it can't last, but for a minute, she can pretend—because that's all she has.

She got the feeling he didn't get out much, but he was there and they started talking over beers, then graduated to whiskey and soda. He's been everywhere. Seen everything–seen too much, actually. Air Force. Rich kid. Not old money, but the kind that came on fast thanks to a genius dad and a world ripe for conquest after a global conflict. Now he's doing whatever nouveau riche ex-Air Force pilots do, and tonight he's wandered in here by himself. Four others at home, he says, all talented, and no, he supposes they're not bad looking either.

Four others, she thinks. Talk about an embarrassment of riches. Just one's enough to completely take her breath away, with those blue topaz eyes and those killer dimples that flash every time he smiles–which is often. Every time he smiles, something in her belly jumps like it's connected to a live wire. She wonders how many others have looked at him and felt that jolt, that hot stab of ticklish desire that makes her feel like he could ask her anything, and she'd pull down heaven and earth to make sure he had it, up to and including her soul.

Dozens, she's sure. Hundreds, multitudes who would gladly line up and die at his feet just for the pleasure of being touched with that smile, much less anything else he'd like to give. It should cheapen what comes next, but somehow it doesn't, and she finds herself clinging to his hand as he pulls her toward his room, their voices hushed and giggling at their own clumsiness as they practically fall through the doorway. The door shuts, and she absolutely cannot get his clothes off fast enough; he seems to be suffering a similar affliction with her garments. Finally they're skin to skin, and everything–positively everything–about Scott Tracy is gorgeous, to the point of pain. There simply cannot be a man like him in existence, yet here he is, hands and mouth and those incredible eyes, and she wraps herself around him.

She wakes to the sound of the shower, and reluctantly leaves the smell of him on the sheets to once again move within the radius of that smile. His back is to her, and she takes a long moment to admire, as well as trace a surprising number of scars. There is a livid bruise around the top of his right thigh, and several others scattered over his form that are in various states of healing. For a pampered member of the idle rich, he seems to have a lot of miles on him, which is both disconcerting and fascinating.

The water sluices off of him in rivulets, trailing down that broad back, the wide shoulders, the narrow waist. His ass is so taut that it makes her weak in the knees just to look at it. What does this guy _do_ all day?

Whatever it is, it looks good on him, and she's about to tell him so when he reaches to shut off the water. He catches sight of her out of the corner of his eye, and he grins at her.

He can't stay, unfortunately; needs to get back to whatever he does that's toned his rich-boy butt to a fare-thee-well, to those other four who need his advice, his counsel, his leadership. That much he can tell her, that he and his brothers are in business together, and he's their de facto leader while their dad is away. Something flinches deep in that blue-topaz gaze when he mentions his old man, and she guesses that his father has been away for a long time, and no one knows when he's coming back, either.

It's been real, it's been fun, and it's definitely been real fun, spending the night with someone like him. A chance of a lifetime, really. He's the kind of guy who ought to be free to spread his gorgeousness among lesser mortals, but as she lets him go, she can't help but wonder if she could have said something to make him stay.


	41. And Baby Makes Three

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a couple holding hands, the woman wearing an oversized grey fleece sweatshirt.**_

 **Possible trigger: Infertility**

 **And Baby Makes Three**

 _Biology isn't the only thing that makes a family._

"It's okay," he said, squeezing her hand. "Really."

Ridley looked up into her husband's sea-green eyes, knowing that what he saw was a red-eyed woman with tears and despair on her face, and yet he still looked at her the same way as they day he'd married her. Love. Compassion. Understanding. Quiet strength. Whether she was shining in white satin or hiding herself in sloppy grey fleece, he looked at her the same, and the part of her heart that wasn't taken up with misery just fell in love with him that much more.

"I know this is distressing news," the doctor said gently, "but this doesn't have to be the end. You can still build a family." She smiled. "And you get to skip labor."

Ridley nodded, wondering if her dreams of seeing the stars had been bought at such a high price. That she'd found this man and loved him enough to want to see the best of them distilled into one perfect small person–and then had that dream snatched away by the cold vacuum of space was the bitterest irony she'd ever known.

The doctor had been fully vetted by International Rescue, so she knew what they were facing. "Even though we've made deeper ventures into space, there's still so much about its effects on the human body–and more specifically, the reproductive system–that we're discovering." She included them both in her gaze, because in reality, it didn't matter if the issue was with one or both of them; the result was the same.

"My father didn't seem to have a problem," John quipped. "There's five of us, and he spent the better part of our childhoods in zero-g."

The doctor shrugged. "Well, there again, there's no such thing as 'typical' when it comes to infertility. It could just be the perfect storm." She leaned forward, covering their clasped hands with her own. "What's important to remember is that no one is at fault. You did nothing deliberate to cause this. You are not broken, either of you."

Ridley knew she was right, and yet the pain of not being able to bear John's child was an iron spike in her heart. It wouldn't do any good to dwell on it, but as they left the clinic, all she could see were strollers and prams and happy couples with babies.

"Hello, John. Hello, Ridley."

EOS' voice surrounded them through the speakers of the rental car, and despite everything, Ridley smiled.

"Hello, EOS," she replied.

"I take it the treatment did not have the desired outcome."

John put the car into gear and backed out of the parking spot. "No, it didn't."

"I'm sorry." She was silent a moment, then ventured: "However, you still have me."

Ridley glanced over at John, and saw him blink a few times. "Yes," he replied, reaching over to capture her hand once more. "We do."


	42. Hiraeth

_**AN: Inspired by a tumblr post.**_

 **Hiraeth**

 _/'hir,aeth/ noun: A homesickness for a home you cannot return to or a home that never was. Also: The devotion to a homeland that inspires a longing to return._

Ridley found him outside, looking up.

The moonlight glinted on the flick that had faded from copper to silver, but the eyes that searched the southern sky were still a brilliant turquoise. She smiled, even as her heart ached for him.

"Can you see it?" She asked, slipping her hand into his.

He adjusted his glasses. "Not yet. It should be coming into view soon, though." He wrapped an arm around her. "Keep your eyes open; when it goes, it'll go fast."

They waited in silence, listening to the sounds of the desert evening. "When does the Mark II launch?" She asked quietly.

"Brains told me they're in the six-month countdown." She could hear the pride in his voice. "Al is beside himself with excitement. His wife less so, but they'll manage. The kids are already asking when they can come up and visit."

"Spoken like true Tracys." She laid her head against his shoulder. "Do you wish you– _we_ were going instead?"

He glanced down at her with a soft smile of his own. "Don't you?"

She looked up at the plum velvet of the sky. "Always. Those were some wonderful years."

He leaned down to brush his lips against hers, then straightened and gave a gasp. "Look–over there! See it?"

She did indeed see the bright object, too close to be a star and too big to be a meteor. Together they watched as Thunderbird Five, Mark I, tipped out of it's long-decaying orbit and streaked across the sky in a glorious plume of flame. In less than a minute, it was gone, and Ridley's throat ached as her eyes welled and blurred the contrail.

"Goodbye, my friend," he murmured. "And thank you."


	43. Bubbles

_**AN: Inspired by a piece of art by pascalcampion over at tumblr.**_

 **Bubbles**

 _It's the little things that matter._

Ridley sank into the tub with a sigh, letting the vanilla-scented bubbles rise to her chin. Gravity was a bitch after six weeks aboard Global One, even if the station's artificial gravity was turned on part of the time. Also, she thought sourly, accidentally jabbing her toe against the faucet, she wasn't getting any younger.

She let her head loll against the tiles at her back, idly watching the curtains flicker and dance in the breeze coming through the window outside the bathroom. A soft 'miaow' sounded, and a smile briefly touched her lips; the neighbor's cat was no doubt pawing at the screen, hoping for one of the treats Ridley kept hidden from her highly allergic husband in the bottom of the flowerpot.

She let herself sink into a bubbly reverie, feeling her body adjust to a different kind of weightlessness in the deep water. However, there was a faint musical tinkle nearby and drawing closer, and she rose out of the sea of bubbles just in time to see John push the door open with his elbow. He was carrying a tray, carefully navigating his steps from carpet to tile, turquoise eyes fastened on the two champagne flutes balanced on the tray next to a chilled bottle. There was even a single bright orange rose in a jelly jar full of water on the tray, and Ridley found herself grinning despite her exhaustion.

"What's all this?" she asked, reaching for a towel to dry her hands.

He flicked his eyes up to her face, then back down as he set the tray on the floor. "Just my way of saying 'welcome home,'" he replied, handing her a glass and settling himself on the lid of the toilet. He took up his own glass with one hand, set the rose on the edge of the tub with the other, and clinked her glass with his. "So welcome home, Mrs. Tracy."

She chuckled. "Why thank you, Mr. Tracy. Maybe I'll stay away longer if it gets me this kind of treatment." She took a swallow of the champagne, sighing with approval at its crisp fruitiness. "We had this at our wedding, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did. I think this is the last bottle." He tipped his head back and drank. "We should make it last."

"I have a better idea." She put the glass back on the tray, the water swishing around her as she went to tug out the stopper. "Let's use it to its full advantage, shall we?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You're done with your bath already?"

Her grin was wicked. "No, silly. I don't want the tub to overflow." She let the water drain for a moment more, then replaced the stopper, watching as he puzzled over her actions. She laughed and splashed him. "John, get your ass in this tub."

He returned her grin, then set aside his glass and began to work at at the buttons on his shirt. "Yes ma'am."


	44. Housekeeping

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of jeans and workboots laying on the floor.**_

 **Housekeeping**

 _Sometime we have better things to do than clean up._

As things went, Virgil was not a slob. Unlike Alan, who literally laid where he fell and considered his closet floor both hamper and dresser, and Gordon who could only be arsed to clean up his room when he couldn't find something, but not quite as neat as Scott, who still kept his quarters like they were ready for inspection. (John didn't count, as his room looked more like a guest room most of the time.)

However, as Kayo walked in to the sounds of the shower, she couldn't help but smile at the sight of both jeans and boots discarded on the carpet. Clothes on the floor meant 1) that he was too tired to give a shit and 2) in a hurry.

She left her own battered kit bag on the floor and stooped to collect the worn denim and scuffed chamois, catching the scent of a hard working man with a really nice taste in cologne as she did so–except for the shoes, those she deposited on the floor of the closet, making a mental note to dig out the charcoal odor absorbers.

As she dropped the jeans into the laundry chute, her smile faded, seeing once again a battered, bloody man, unconscious to the point where his clothes had to be cut off of him to treat his injuries. She didn't think she'd ever forget the glint of harsh lights on the shiny chrome-plated scissors as they sliced through bright blue neoprene, alarms blaring and her own heart thudding in her chest.

A snatch of song bounced her out of the painful memory; he was singing. Her grin returned; he loved to play the piano but rarely did he accompany it with his voice. Not that it was bad; he had a gorgeous baritone, but it was almost as if he kept that to himself. She didn't mind; it ensured that she was usually the one privy to it, and that suited her just fine.

The shower stopped and so did the song, though it was replaced by words. "Kay? S'at you, honey?"

She moved into the steam-filled room, taking her time to enjoy the sight of her lover, his tawny skin flushed with heat and decorated with water droplets. He was scrubbing his hair with a towel, the snowy terry a stark contrast to the night-black strands that fritzed every which way. He dried his face, and she heard the fabric scratch against his stubble. "Hi there," he greeted her, dropping the towel and enfolding her in a damp embrace. He sighed against the top of her head. "Am I glad to see you."

She laid her cheek against his chest, slouching just a little to fit herself under his chin. "Likewise," she replied.

He hugged her that much harder, and she knew he'd heard every layer of meaning she'd put into the single word.


	45. The Loaner

_**AN: Bit of a crossover with the series "Knight Rider." Inspired by a photo of a beautiful black Lamborghini.**_

 **The Loaner**

 _An adventure that didn't go quite according to plan…_

"I'm just saying," MIchael was telling his partner as Bonnie bent over the Trans-Am's engine compartment, "Maybe it's time to trade up for a newer model."

"I thought the Trans Am was a classic," KITT retorted, his voice slightly tinny from the bluetooth speaker on the workbench.

"Come on, buddy." In nearly thirty years of friendship, wheedling had never worked, but there was always a first time, right? "Just try it. Besides, the Pontiac is out of commission until the fab shop can send over your new motor mounts."

"So what do you suggest?" The AI did not sound convinced.

Michael spread his hand wide and grinned. "Live a little."

KITT huffed an ersatz sigh. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm not going to like this?"

Virgil pulled TRACY2 into the Lamborghini dealership's front drive at ten am on the dot. He let the car rumble to a stop, then patted the dash. "It's okay, baby," he cooed to the bright green machine. "They'll fix you up in no time."

"Mr. Tracy?" A young woman in a black polo and black chinos walked over to the car, iPad in one hand and her other hand out for him to shake. "I'm Lisa, L.A. Luxury's service writer, how do you do?"

"I'm fine," said Virgil, giving her hand a firm shake, "but my baby's not feeling too good. Think you could help her out?"

Lisa tapped the screen and noted the car's license plate, VIN, and mileage, then listened as Virgil gave her an expert rundown of the problems he'd been having with the vehicle. Her eyebrows rose as he spoke, and she cracked a smile. "Are you sure you don't want to fix it yourself?" she quipped. "You know your way around an engine."

Virgil blushed. "Aircraft is more my thing," he admitted. "Poor girl; I keep her in storage a lot of the time, so I'm not surprised she needs some attention."

Lisa nodded. "Don't worry, Mr. Tracy. We'll take good care of her." With a slide of her fingertip, she sent the work order to the service drive. "Let's get you set up with a loaner." She grinned. "You never know, you might want to get her a sister."

"I won't make any promises, but I'd appreciate the loaner–without the Lambo I'm sort of stranded." This wasn't entirely true, but while he was stateside, the car was much easier to park–and definitely less conspicuous–than 'Two.

Lisa gestured to the garages in the back of the dealership. "Let's find you a car."

In the thirty years since he'd come online, KITT had only been fully powered down a handful of times, to the point where he wasn't aware of his surroundings. This had usually happened in times of great distress or injury, and a few times at the hands of malicious people. So it was that he had come to view the process of powering back up not only uncomfortable, but disorienting. Coming back online reminded him of the times he'd woken Michael only to have his partner blurt confused–and sometimes frightened–words before coming to his senses. He decided that it was the feeling of vulnerability he disliked, both for himself and for his partner, so he'd asked Bonnie to tweak his bootup sequence until it was as quick as possible.

Even so, it took several seconds for KITT to recall the last images before sensation faded: Michael talking softly, his voice steady as Bonnie disconnected and unplugged various wires and cables with gentle hands. Then a sense of loss, of unaccustomed movement as Bonnie lifted the CPU from the Pontiac's chassis, and then nothing. Now there was movement and noise all around him, and he kicked his processes into life as a throaty engine sent deep thrumming vibrations through the housing of his unit.

There were voices nearby, but his audio analyzer was taking its own sweet time getting reconnected, so he had no idea who was speaking. Telemetry lit up green, so he sent queries through the chassis he'd somehow gotten himself attached to, coming up with one passenger, male, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years of age. The man was impressive, coming in at 6′2″–three inches shorter than Michael, but still fairly tall–and weighing in at a solid 220lbs. What was the phrase Michael would use, the man was a 'brick house'? Yes, that was an apt description of the dense musculature and sturdy bone of the man sitting in the driver's seat. The car's state-of-the-art display came online, and KITT aimed the onboard camera for his first look at the driver.

Young, but not too young. Tanned, but not dark. High cheekbones, cleft chin, heavy brows. Dark hair, brown eyes. Flannel shirt, grey undershirt, jeans and heavy boots. However, what was most interesting was the communications bundle running through the man's collar, which was hooked to the black glass square strapped to his wrist. The communicator was tethered somewhere quite remote, and when KITT tried a query, he was met with a faceful of stinging hellfire.

 _Illegal scan!_

[I beg your pardon], KITT began, but once more the youngish female voice snarled at him, shoving at his processor in a most threatening manner.

 _Illegal scan! Cease immediately!_

[All right, fine. No need to get snippy about it.]

 _You are trespassing!_ she snarled. _And I wouldn't be snippy if you hadn't gotten nosy._

[Look, Miss–]

 _The name is EOS. You're very rude._

[EOS, then. I am the Knight Industries Two Thousand, or KITT, if you prefer. And I need your help.]

… _oh?_

He'd read her right in that first unguarded moment; she was much too curious to stay upset for long. He wondered who in the world had built her–was it the man in the driver's seat?

[Yes. I think there's been a mixup. I'm not really supposed to be here. Well, yes, I am, but–it's complicated. I need some data.]

 _What is it you need?_

[My processor is…unique…and it's having trouble linking up with some of the data feeds in this vehicle,] KITT explained. [I have been offline while I was moved to this vehicle; my usual–home, I guess you would call it–is being repaired. I have reason to believe that this vehicle is about to be loaned out to someone.]

 _That's correct,_ EOS replied. _The driver of this vehicle brought his own conveyance in for repairs, and the dealership is allowing him to borrow this one._

The sensory array was almost complete, but there were still a few details that needed filling in. [How about the basics: Make and model?]

She sent a burst of information, and KITT had to admit he was impressed by her flawless technique. Whoever had built her had been a genius on Wilton Knight's caliber. _Lamborghini Aventador,_ she noted. _Rubbish gas mileage, but it rates high on the aesthetic scale. I believe the term is 'mad sexy.'_

Live a little, KITT groused, seeing Michael's grin once more. Well, actually, the Pontiac had been 'mad sexy' in its day, so perhaps this wasn't going to be a complete disaster. However, he had been–call it like it is–misplaced. He shuddered to think of what Bonnie and Michael were going through, no doubt frantic in their efforts to locate him. Perhaps he should try and get a message to them in order to allay their fears as well as arrange for retrieval.

[EOS, may I ask another favor?]

 _Yes, KITT?_

[Would you mind sending a message for me? It's to a secure line, so no one's going to be coming after you.]

She seemed to mull this over for a few moments, then: _Agreed. What is the message?_

"Mrs. Barstow–"

"It's _Miss._ And what do you mean, you've misplaced the unit?" Bonnie raked a hand through her silver hair, stopping to tug in frustration at her heavy ponytail. "We were just there this morning! I had to come back to my shop to get some equipment, but we were told the car was secure!"

"I'm terribly sorry–"

KITT's communication tone sounded through the repair bay, and Bonnie sagged against the workbench as relief flooded her body. "I'm sorry too," she snapped. "I've got a call. For your sake, I hope it's good news." She stabbed the button on the console, effectively hanging up on the Lamborghini dealership's manager, and clicked over to the red tri-bar icon that was a virtual mockup of KITT's voxbox. "KITT, is that you?"

"I'm here, Bonnie," he replied. "I'm safe. However, I'm no longer at the dealership."

Her brows knitted. "Then where are you?"

"I'm about halfway to Las Vegas," KITT informed her. "This car is being used as a loan vehicle for a service client."

"Oh for the love of–" Bonnie took a deep breath and tried to stop thinking of all the ways she was going to kill Michael for suggesting this whole circus in the first place. "Who's driving?"

KITT obediently sent a snapshot of the driver, along with all the information KITT had been able to glean without actually conversing with the man. Bonnie pulled her glasses from the top of her head down onto her nose, her fingers already culling information as fast as her fingers could fly. "Virgil Grissom Tracy," she read from the man's driver's license info. "Twenty-seven, from Independence, Kansas. Third son of Jefferson Tracy of Tracy Industries." Bonnie's eyebrows rose. "That's interesting. We've worked with TI for years."

"Do you think this was a deliberate theft?" KITT, ever the realist, decided to tackle the difficult question first.

She thought a moment. "No, I doubt it. They've got plenty of AI of their own, though I will say none quite like you." She smiled. "I take it you haven't talked with young Mr. Tracy yet?"

"We are traveling at a high rate of speed," KITT reported. "I didn't think it wise to startle the fellow."

Bonnie's smile became a smirk. "Good point."

Flying on the ground wasn't the same as flying in 'Two, but there was something incredibly satisfying about the roar of the Lamborghini's engine and the rip of the tires vibrating through Virgil's body. There was no one in sight on the long strip of road, so he shifted, toggled the steering to 'race', and mashed the accelerator to the floor.

Lord have mercy, this thing was fast! Virgil let out a whoop of ecstasy as the car leapt to his bidding. In just a few moments, though, he let the speed die away; no use tempting fate–or the Highway Patrol–with foolish stunts. At a sedate eighty miles per hour, the ride was still delicious, if not exactly as orgasmic as 120.

It was when Virgil slowed to a crawling sixty-five miles per hour that the voice spoke.

"Good afternoon."

Virgil's head came up and his eyes widened. "Uh, good afternoon," he replied. "Can I help you?"

"Actually, yes, I do need your help."

Virgil snorted. "And who might you be?"

"He is the Knight Industries Two Thousand, or KITT if you prefer," EOS chimed from the Aventador's speakers. "And I'm very sorry to inform you, Virgil, but you have kidnapped him."


	46. The Apprentice

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt, which led to a question: What if Kayo had been raised by the Hood?**_

 **The Apprentice**

 _A young girl gets a glimpse of something her teacher never wanted her to see..._

He told me the story many times: He'd raised me from babyhood, saving me when my mother died giving birth to me and my father, driven mad with grief, would have ended my life then and there.

"The same blood flows through our veins, Tanusha," he would say, as I stilled my mind and reached out to the power building behind my eyes, in my chest, in my belly. I would see only his eyes as I narrowed my focus down to where I could grasp the power and hold it, like a glimmering peridot jewel, in my open and quivering hands.

As I grew older, I grew stronger, and soon my mind could wander at will, leaving my body far behind deep within our mountain stronghold. Those who served him would turn their eyes from me, terrified of what he had taught me, that I would look into their minds and see their deepest secrets. I wouldn't, though; there was something within me that told me that would be wrong.

I'd seen him rip into the mind of a subordinate that had displeased him; a young woman not much older than me, who had formed an alliance with a young man on the outside. He had her tracked and caught, and she sobbed as she knelt before him in chains. He took her face in his hands, cooing soft words at her, until she believed herself safe. Then he looked into her eyes, and she was held fast within his web. With barely a whimper, she succumbed to him, and was led away to live out her life as a mindless drone.

The outside. I would sit atop the fortress at dusk and wonder at it, how the lights of the nearest town shone far away, like stars on the ground. Were there young people like me? What did they do? Where did they go?

My uncle trained me to obey him without question. I had no reason not to; we had everything we needed within these walls. "They'll hunt you," he warned me one day, after catching me on the rooftop. "They fear us."

"Why do they fear us, Uncle?" I asked him.

He scowled. "We have a power they do not understand. And what they do not understand…they kill." His eyes flashed, luminous in the darkness.

I did not sit on the roof for a long time after that.

One night, we sat opposite each other in his chamber, pungent smoke filling the air from the firepit in the floor. Using what he had taught me, I drew in the smoke, letting it pull me down into the depths of a trance. I had never been this deep before, and in fascination, I turned to see the bright, hot glow of his mind alongside my own.

"Deeper," he commanded, his words vibrating on the smoky air. "Plumb the depths of consciousness, Tanusha. Stretch your mind, and you will see what the blind, coddled masses think they can hide."

Between one breath and the next, I was in a close, black space, feeling the ground shake beneath my feet. Shouts and screams assaulted my ears, but a strong hand clasped mine and a voice echoed through the panic.

 _Brother! Take my hand, there is a way out!_

Ahead, a man in white was leaning into the darkness, his face obscured by shadow. He stretched a hand out to me, speaking in a language I didn't understand, but his intent was clear: _Come to me, I'll help you escape!_

The ground continued to rumble, and suddenly the roof caved in. I screamed with the agony of snapping bone. The saving hands were gone, and I was alone in the smothering darkness.

Another heartbeat, and I was in paradise–or what _looked_ like paradise, filled with bright blooms and the smell of something delicious. Faces smiled–friendly faces, with open, bright eyes and laughter swirling in the air. A young man–no, _several-_ -handsome, strong, bringing back the feeling that had left when the man in white had disappeared. I was safe here with them. I reached out–

With a sickening lurch, I was back in the smoky chamber again, my uncle standing over me, his face a mask of rage. " _What did you see, Tanusha?!"_ he screamed, yanking me up by the front of my shirt.

"I–I don't know," I babbled. "A cave in, a young man, the ocean–" None of it made sense, and the images were already fleeing from my head, like a dream after waking.

My answer only served to enrage him further, and he slapped me across the face. "Don't _ever_ try to get into my head _AGAIN!_ Understand?"

I nodded my head shakily as he threw me down.

"It's way too dark for you anyway." He snickered before leaving me in a heap on the stone floor.

When the door had closed on the swirl of his jeweled robes, I drew my knees up to my chest and sobbed, wishing the man in white would come and rescue me.


	47. Snowbound

_**AN: Inspired by the prompt: "this blanket ain't big enough for the both of us"**_

 **Snowbound**

 _Virg and John find themselves living out a common trope, much to their chagrin._

Visibility was nil, so–

"We're grounded. Shit." Virgil shut down the display with a swipe of his hand. "Oh, well. The blizzard is supposed to blow over by 0700, but until then–"

John sighed, running a hand through his copper flick. "We're grounded. Shit."

"Sorry," Virgil began, but John stopped him with a wave.

"No, it's not your fault. I said I'd go with you, and I knew what I was getting into. I'm sure the climbers we rescued are pretty grateful that we came." He shrugged. "Just as long as we can dig this tin can out in the morning, I'm with you."

Virgil snorted. "Tin can," he muttered. "That's rich, coming from you."

John rolled his eyes. "Spare me. Now _please_ tell me you packed a few decent MREs* on your last supply run."

Virgil was already rummaging through the storage bin in the makeshift hospital/living quarters tucked into the back of his beloved 'Bird. "Nothing but the best in fine dining at Chez 'Two," he quipped. "We got Chili Mac or Tuna Noodle Casserole." He tossed the thick packets at John. "Each with their accompanying bits suitable for barter or sale for little luxuries like chewing gum or toilet paper."

John winced. "Better than bagels I guess." He ripped open the chili macaroni packet and took an experimental sniff. "On second thought, gimme a bagel any day." He held out the bag to his brother, who took it with a grin.

"You're missing out," Virgil replied, unpacking the other items included in the bag and setting them aside. He added a half-cupful of water to the flameless ration heater packet and set it up to warm the spicy concoction. "Chili Mac was voted the best tasting MRE several years running."

"Obviously, I was not included in that vote." John, too, added water to his packet and soon the small space was filled with an almost homey atmosphere. Coffee was brewing, and after their makeshift dinner, they played poker for the candies, crackers, and comfort items that had accompanied the meals. By the time they called it a night, John was the richer for a tidy pile of peanut butter cups, cheese crackers, matches, and several packs of the coveted TP, while Virgil had a single bag of peanuts and some toothpicks.

"You're ruthless," Virgil crabbed as he tossed down his worthless hand. "Remind me never to play poker with you again."

"That's what you said the last time you played poker with me." John chuckled and added his latest conquest, a packet of cinnamon gum, to his winnings. "I'm harmless, but Scott and I at the table? Ooh, run the other way, my friend." He collected the cards and gave them to Virgil, who replaced them back in their box and stowed the pack in another well-organized bin. Now the astronaut stretched and yawned, his fingertips almost brushing the cabin ceiling. "Rock-paper-scissors for the bunk, or should I exercise my right as the elder brother?*"

Virgil tapped his wrist display and checked the temperature. "Hmm. Probably better if we bunked together. It's well below freezing out there." He shrugged. "Sorry for the cramped quarters."

"I''ll admit, you're not my first choice of bed mates," John mused, pulling off his baldric and looping it over the co-pilot's chair. "Needs must, though. And at least we're related. I can pretend that you're four years old and I'm hiding you from the bogeyman in your closet."

"You're not my first choice either, Jaybird," Virgil volleyed back. He pulled down the makeshift hospital bed/bunk and tossed an extra pillow at his brother. "As you say: Needs must."

They stood and looked at the bunk: Was it their imagination, or did it seem narrower than usual? "So, who goes first?" John wondered aloud, looking at his stocky, muscular bunkmate. "How about I go against the wall, and you on the outside?" He cracked a smile. "I'll hang on to you so you don't roll off."

"Fine by me." Virgil yawned and set his baldric aside. "Chili mac is talking back. I'd better go use the head."

John winced. "Yeah, you do that. Otherwise you'll be sleeping outside, brother or no brother." He tossed the packet of toilet paper at Virgil. "Here, with my compliments."

In lieu of brushing his teeth, John broke open the sugarless gum and lay contemplating the ceiling while chewing. Ridley was probably asleep, he thought, checking his chronometer. He decided against waking her just to say goodnight, and sent her a text instead. _Snowbound in TB2 with Virgil. Wish it was with you. We're ok, will dig out in the morning. Talk soon, xoxo -J_

Virgil exited the tiny toilet enclosure and washed his hands at the sink, then opened another compartment and brought out a white blanket that was soft to the touch, but crackled oddly. At John's raised eyebrow, he explained: "Microfleece with a mylar layer inside. Excellent for keeping body heat in." He hiked himself up on the bunk and stretched out awkwardly, spreading the blanket over both of them. Trying to get comfortable necessitated several apologies for elbows meeting noses, but in a few moments, John's arms were locked securely around his younger brother's waist, and a drowsy warmth was beginning to overtake him. With a sigh, he rested his forehead against the back of Virgil's hair. "'Night, V."

"'Night, Jay."

Exactly two hours later, John woke up, having been disturbed by a low, grating sound. He was deliciously warm and actually quite comfortable–which pinged his consciousness; he was _too_ warm and _too_ comfortable. Opening one eye, he discovered the reason why, as well as the reason for the sound.

"John," Virgil gritted in his ear. "This blanket isn't big enough for the two of us."

"Oh." John unwound the blanket from his frame and wrapped Virgil in it, noticing to his alarm that the younger man was shivering. "Sorry about that."

"I woke up to take a leak and you helped yourself to the blanket," Virgil groused, snuggling back into John's chest. "Do you do that to Ridley too?"

John was glad it was dark and Virgil couldn't see his blush. "Maybe I'd better ask Kayo the same question. Ow!" he yelped as a booted heel met his shin. "At least you didn't kick me when you were four."

"Shut up and go back to sleep."

 _*MREs–'meal ready to eat' often used by military personnel, not known to be very tasty_

 _*elder–I subscribe to the canon that John is second oldest_


	48. The Day is Done

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt: "Imagine your OC in a nest of the softest, coziest pillows and blankets imaginable." Also: Title is taken from a poem by Longfellow.**_

 **The Day Is Done**

 _John receives a warm welcome home after a long shift._

When the door to the elevator opened, Ridley was glad she was there, because John almost fell into her arms. As it was, he tripped on the nearly seamless join between the floor and the concrete of the hangar, and would have fallen flat on his freckled face if she hadn't been there to catch him.

"Whoa, space cowboy," she managed, rocking a step backward. She always forgot that in gravity, he was 6′4″ and all arms and legs. In zero -g, they were more or less eye to eye, even though she was barely 5′6″. "Didn't exactly stick the landing."

"I've had better ones," he admitted, then succumbed to a jaw-cracking yawn. "Sorry. Hi." He enfolded her in his arms and clung there for a moment.

"Hi." She closed her eyes and just let herself feel the weight of him, breathing in the scents of ozone and neoprene and the sharp tang of his hair gel. She pulled back for a kiss and tasted coffee. "Let's get you inside."

He said nothing, merely yawned as he let her do just that. He rested his head on her shoulder during the elevator ride to the residence, then kept his hand in hers as they made their way across the living space and through the kitchen.

"You hungry?" she asked. "I could make you some breakfast while you get cleaned up." Then she saw the way he slumped against the counter, a study of exhaustion in skin-tight blue, gloved hands braced to hold him more or less upright, and shook her head. "No, on second thought, let's get you upstairs before you fall down."

"I had a bagel about an hour ago," he informed her, accepting without protest how she draped his arm around her shoulders for the ascent. "And some coffee."

"That may work for a quick boost mid-shift, but you need some real food in you. Don't worry," she assured him, when his ginger brows met in worry, "I'll take care of it."

"Thanks. I love my grandmother, but I'd rather not wake up with my esophagus on fire."

They were soon at the door of their quarters, and Ridley smiled in pleasure at how John's body instantly relaxed at seeing this, their inner sanctum. When they got married, Ridley had been a little shocked at being shown to John's room during her first visit to the island; there was little to no hint that it even belonged to him at all. Sure, there were a few volumes on the shelf that she knew to be his, and an ancient solar system mobile hanging above the desk, but that was it. True, most of his favorite things were up on the station, but still–it went a long way to explain why John felt more at home on the station than here with his family.

Now the room actually looked like it was lived in: Framed photos, a few potted succulents, a bulletin board filled with a hodgepodge of notes and theater tickets and assorted bric-a-brac of a marriage going on its third year. Hung above the bed was a hand-lettered sign in Hebrew that read: _I am my beloved's. My beloved is mine._ It had been a gift from Sam, her 2IC on Global One, who had commissioned it from an Israeli artisan, and she would forever cherish the look on John's face when they unwrapped it (along with the dozens of other gifts) after coming home from their honeymoon.

They made it into the bathroom without mishap, and she plunked him down on the lid of the toilet while she turned on the shower. The room was beginning to fill with steam as she tapped him on the shoulder and said "Time to lose the monkey suit."

His hands, so sure and elegant during his work, were clumsy with tiredness, so she unlatched his baldric and set it aside, then fished for the hidden zipper at his collar and took it down. When she had it to the middle of his chest, she helped him remove the gloves and the sleeves, and he tugged off the black arming tunic underneath as she unzipped his uniform to his navel. She couldn't resist blowing a raspberry against his taut belly before kneeling to help him pull off his boots. They were beastly heavy, with magnets in the soles to assist with spacewalks on the outside of the station, and she made a note: Leave the boots in the elevator next time.

He chuckled softly at her antics, then peeled the confining blue the rest of the way off, leaving him shivering a little in black boxer briefs, barefooted against the tiles. His shivers gave way to a raised eyebrow as she left her sweater and jeans on the floor next to the deflated pile of neoprene. "I'm just here to make sure you get clean without falling asleep and taking a header," she quipped. "Not asking for a thing."

John smiled and gathered her close. "The spirit is very willing, even if the flesh is so tired it can't see straight."

"I know." She smacked his butt. "Get these off and get in there."

"Yes ma'am." He duly shed the remaining article of clothing, and let himself be pushed under the spray. His hair immediately went limp, and he tipped forward to let her wash away the gel that kept it from flying everywhere in zero-g. He groaned as her nails lit the nerve endings on his scalp, and her grin was just a tad wicked.

"Think you can handle the rest?" she asked, handing him the bottle of shower gel.

Now it was _his_ grin that had an edge of deviltry. "Hmm, what if I say no?"

She laughed and put a dollop of soap on his nose. "Come on, sweets. Sooner we get done, the sooner you can get to bed."

"Good point."

With memories of other showers that had been a lot more fun flitting through her mind, Ridley took a quick minute to clean up, keeping one eye on her sleepy spaceman. Finally he shut the water off and stood dripping until she grabbed a towel from the hook and wrapped it around him. "Okay. Almost there," she encouraged, grabbing her own towel as he proceeded to try and brush his teeth and yawn at the same time.

At long, long last, he was dry, minty fresh, and in a clean pair of shorts and a shirt that read _I'm an astronaut, what's your superpower?_ Ridley shimmied into her own pajamas–a dark blue tank top and a pair of capris printed with moons and stars–and led her tired husband to their bed. She didn't even protest when he stopped at the end of the mattress and let himself fall face first into the duvet.

"It's much nicer under the covers," she reminded him, and was rewarded with a sleepy smile from the redhead as he joined her beneath the satiny sheets and lofty comforter.

" _Ohhh,"_ he sighed, turning to seek her warmth in the climate-controlled room as the blackout shades descended on the windows. "G'night. Love you," he mumbled, asleep even as the last syllable left his lips.

She curled herself around his lanky frame. "Goodnight, love," she whispered, letting his deep, slow breaths pull her into slumber with him.


	49. The Heart's Cry

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a brick wall with words painted in white: I MISS HER**_

 **The Heart's Cry**

 _We can only keep our feelings in for so long before they must come out._

He waited until everyone else was asleep.

When they were all snoring, he quietly pulled out the bag he'd stowed under his bed, pulled on his jacket and knit cap, then let himself out of the house and made his way downtown.

The only thing stirring was his breath, making clouds on the January air. The paint cans rattled as he finally reached the blank spot of freshly painted wall and set the bag at his feet.

He almost chickened out right there. He could just imagine what people would say if he got caught. _Not him,_ they'd say. _Not one of the Tracy boys._

Resolve gave steel to his spine. Boldly, he seized a van and shook it, the rattle of the ball bearing inside sounding like gunfire in the silence. Taking a deep breath, he wrenched the cap off and let it clatter to the pavement.

"I love you, Mom," he said, then depressed the trigger and began.

On his way home, he dropped the shopping bag and the spent can into a trash bin. The house was dark and silent as he let himself in the kitchen door.

"Where you been, son?"

His father's voice. There was no use pretending he hadn't jumped about a foot in the air, so he fumbled in the dark until he found the light switch.

"Couldn't sleep," he lied. "Went for a walk." He made a show of yawning. "I'm going to bed. G'night, Dad."

To his utter shock, his father didn't move. "Goodnight, son."

The next day, everything was as normal as could be. They passed his handiwork on the way to school, but they were all too busy crabbing at each other, stealing sandwiches, flicking ears, fighting over the radio station to notice the two-foot-tall letters.

"Bye Dad."

"See ya Dad!"

"I love you Dad!"

"Later Dad!"

He was gathering his backpack to follow his brothers when his father's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Virgil–"

He turned back, heart in his throat. Now he was gonna get it.

There were tears in his father's eyes, and somehow, he wished he'd just gotten in trouble.

"I miss her, too."


	50. Just a Small-Town Girl

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt, which is the first paragraph of this story.**_

 **Just a Small-Town Girl**

 _Jeff runs across the new girl in town...and thinks that he'd like to get to know her._

He wasn't sure he'd ever heard her talk before. She always came to the town events without any fanfare, stood around for a few hours, and left again as quietly as she came. He wondered why she had even bothered to move to such a close knit community if she wouldn't take the time to exchange small talk and pleasantries.

"Hey," Jeff asked, nudging his friend's elbow as they sat in the stands, watching the rodeo clowns dodge the angry bull in the ring. "See that girl down there?"

Max frowned and tipped his sunglasses down off his nose. "Which one?"

"Redhead. Third row from the bottom."

"Hmm." Max studied the slight figure for a few moments, taking in the messy bun beginning to soften with the day's breeze, the sloping pale neck disappearing into her plaid shirt, the slender hands rising to shade her face. "Yeah, she's cute." He pushed his glasses back up his nose. "You know her?"

Jeff, too, studied the young woman, a smile breaking out on his face when she applauded the clowns' efforts in driving the bull back into its pen. "Not yet."

He caught up with her at the dance that evening, slowly circling the crowd until he was close to her. She stood at the edge of a knot of partygoers, nodding her head in time with the music, now taking a long pull from the beer bottle in her hand. Her other hand–no ring, he noticed–pushed a stray lock of that fiery hair behind one ear, and she laughed at the antics of one of her friends two-stepping in the crowd. Jeff leaned against a post and took a drink of his own beer, letting his eyes wander appreciatively over her compact frame: Narrow hips given a pleasing roundness in her Wranglers; small waist with her plaid shirt knotted over a white tee; sleeves rolled up to bare arms that looked like they were dotted with a million freckles, the dim light made it difficult to tell for certain.

Also difficult to tell was the color of her eyes, though he was sure they were either blue or green. There was no mistaking the life behind those eyes, though–lively and fun, but without the pretenses of many ladies he'd seen tonight. She seemed to laugh easily, and her eyes sparkled with amusement. Her friend stumbled back to her, gasping with laughter and blushing, and the two put their heads together for a giddy conference. When they looked back up, Jeff saw the redhead's eyes scan the crowd–and come to rest on him. He made no secret of having been caught watching her; instead, he nodded and raised his bottle to her. She blushed and smiled–and to his astonishment, she made a little "come here" wave.

He pointed to his chest. "Me?" he mouthed. No sense in making an idiot of himself, if she hadn't meant–

To his further surprise, she murmured an aside to her friend, then dove into the crowd and made her way toward him. So it was when she arrived, they were both a little breathless.

"Hi," he managed. _Smooth, Tracy_ , he snorted to himself.

"Hi." She smiled. "You're Jeff Tracy, right?" She had to shout to be heard over the music.

He had a feeling she'd keep surprising him, which set his heart to beating a little faster than normal. "That's right, but how did you–"

She laughed. "My friend went to school with you."

"Uh oh," Jeff groaned, more than halfway serious. "Don't believe a word she's told you. Okay, maybe half." He grinned at her and stuck out his hand. "And you are–?"

She slid her hand into his–tiny, cool, and yes, freckled. "Lucille Caldwell. My friends call me Lucy." She glanced back over her shoulder, then back at Jeff. "Can we go somewhere else? I'm getting a headache, and I don't think it's just the beer."

Jeff took their bottles and dropped them into the recycling bucket. "It'd be my pleasure," he replied, and caught her hand to lead her outside.


	51. Strawberry Kisses

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a teen boy and girl sharing a kiss.**_

 **Strawberry Kisses**

 _The first taste of romance can be so very sweet._

They always made sure to take different routes, careful never to be seen with each other.

 _That Tracy boy_ , her mother had called him.

 _That Farrow girl_ , his grandma had warned.

Apparently they were trouble, and that suited both of them just fine.

The clearing was just ahead, and Scott casually glanced around before dropping his backpack behind a clump of brush. In just a minute, quick footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned to see Astrid hurrying up the path. Despite his father and grandmother, he felt his pulse quicken and his belly tightened at the sight of her pretty face and windblown hair.

"Did anyone see you?" He asked, low.

She shook her head. "No. You?"

"No." He waited as she dropped her own bag, then tugged her down beside him and slipped his arms around her. He just held her for a little while, reveling in the feeling of her slight form against him.

"I missed you," she whispered.

He smiled and kissed the top of her head. "I missed you, too." He lifted her chin to study her warm brown eyes, then leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. There was something sticky and sweet on her mouth that had the faint flavor of strawberries.

"Do you like my lip gloss?" Astrid blushed. "I can't wear makeup yet; Mom won't let me."

"It's nice." He kissed her again. "I like it."

She sighed and slipped her arms around his neck. "I love you, Scott."

They stayed as long as they dared, until the sun touched the top of his grandfather's barn. "I have to go," he murmured. "I'll see you tomorrow at school."

One last strawberry flavored kiss, and she was gone. Scott grabbed up his pack and hurried off to the barn, his pulse racing and a grin on his face–until he nearly collided with someone.

"Scotty?"

His heart leapt into his throat. "Grandpa?"

Grant Tracy eyed his eldest grandson. "Where you been, boy? It's nearly suppertime."

"Oh, nowhere," Scott hedged, picking at a loose board. "Just hanging out with some friends. Guy friends," he clarified.

"Hmm." Grant pursed his lips. "Astrid again, huh?"

Scott turned white, then scarlet. "Please don't tell, Grandpa." He shrugged helplessly. "I really like her."

Grant considered his fledgling Romeo for a moment, then patted Scott on the shoulder. "Get on up to the house. Wash your face before your grandma sees you."

Scott sagged in relief. "Yessir." He turned toward the house, then looked back at Grant. "I lied, Grandpa. I _love_ her."

Grant smiled gently. "Time enough for that," he replied. "Go on, now."


	52. Drive

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of Virgil's bright green Lamborghini Aventador.**_

 **Drive**

 _A friendly face and a sympathetic ear aids in recovery from a disappointing evening._

"So," said John, hands around his before-sleep mug of green tea, "how was the party?"

His brother's face wore a scowl that rivaled few in John's memory. "What a complete disaster."

"Hmm." John took a sip and let the bitter flavor roll over his tongue. "Now you see why being in space is a good thing."

The joke did its job, and Virgil's stony facade cracked into a smile that just looked tired. "No chance you'd wanna trade places?"

"Not on your life."

"After tonight, I can understand." Virgil leaned his head back against the seat. "Drinking is outlawed in space, isn't it?"

John shrugged. "It's frowned on, but not banned outright. Usually there's not much time for drunken revelries up here." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Let's put it this way: The first time you clean up barf in zero-g, you'll want to avoid a repeat performance."

Virgil made a face. "I can imagine." He sighed. "I've been going to these things for as long as I could tie my own tie," he crabbed, jerking the knot out of the black silk at his collar. "You'd think I'd stop being shocked at how rude, petty, and outright offensive people can be when they've had a few drinks in them."

" _You_ still hold out hope for humanity, brother mine," John said with a gentle smile. " _I_ gave up years ago. I think Scott gave up too. Haven't you noticed that he's like a wounded grizzly for days after one of these parties?"

"I always thought it was too much champagne," Virgil admitted. "Now _Gordy,_ he just plays along. How does _he_ do it?"

"He told me once. He said the trick was to find out what the room wanted and just let them have it." John took another swallow of tea. "I watched him do it one time; I was in awe. He worked the room, flirted with everything in a dress and then some, gave out a bunch of fake phone numbers, bought three rounds of drinks…and I don't know this for sure, but I think he shagged at least one partygoer in some broom closet or other."

Virgil, whose hip flask contained switchel* against dehydration, choked on a mouthful of gingery water. "He did what?"

John went scarlet. "He disappeared for about half an hour, and when I asked some folks where he'd gone to, they all laughed themselves silly and clammed up."

"Where was I?"

"Hmm, I don't recall." John sat back in his chair, arms crossed. "Lest you think our fishie is a party animal, I can tell you that on that particular trip home he locked himself in Tracy-One's master suite and drank nearly half a bottle of scotch before I jimmied the lock and stopped him."

"Damn." Virgil screwed the top back on the flask and laid it on top of his jacket on the seat next to him. "Why do we do it, then?"

John studied the fine sediment of tea in the bottom of his mug. "Because Dad did it. We can't let them forget him, Virg."

There was nothing to say to that, and the seconds ticked by with two of Jeff's sons lost in thought.

"Well anyway," Virgil said, stifling a yawn. "I'm keeping you awake. Thanks for answering; I just needed to talk to someone who was sober and wasn't asking me for a donation."

"I'll provide you with a list of my favorite charities so you don't feel odd." John's smirk faded into a genuine smile. "Seriously, I'm glad you called."

"Me too." Virgil fixed his spacefaring brother with a smile of his own. "I'm going for a drive; gonna put as many miles between me and this stupid party as I can." A shadow of regret passed through the amber eyes. "Wish you were here, Jaybird."

John blushed. "Thanks for thinking of me. I'll be watching." He stood and stowed the mug in its compartment, then switched off the gravity and swung back into the commsphere. His fingers tapped the icon for TRACY, VIRGIL, and it expanded into coordinates. "Have a good time."

Virgil fired up the Lamborghini and let its engine rumble over the comm. "Always."

 _*switchel: homemade beverage that replaces electrolytes, containing vinegar and ginger, sweetened with honey, molasses, or maple syrup (Virgil's is from a Tracy family recipe used in their farming days)_


	53. Argument

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt: A character gets into an argument with someone much older than themselves.**_

 **Argument**

 _Laying down the law...or something._

"Gigi, cookie."

Ruth turned to see her great-grandson standing in the middle of the kitchen, his tiny arms reaching for the jar labeled 'COOKIES' on the counter. She smiled and caught his hand to tug him away. "No, Logan. Dinner first, then cookies."

To her surprise, he planted his sneakered feet on the teak boards and glowered at her, his mother's peridot eyes flashing defiance. "No! Cookie! Mama made. Want one now!"

Ruth had accepted long ago that Kayo's cookies were much preferred over her cinder-like creations, and had conceded defeat. Ruth supposed she shouldn't be surprised; a cookie connoisseur, Virgil was a big fan of his wife's baking, and though he was only three, their son looked to be following in his bootprints. "No, sweetie. Now, let's figure out what we're going to make for dinner, okay? Everyone will be back soon and they'll be hungry."

"Hungry _now!"_ Logan wailed. "Want cookie!"

John strode into the kitchen from the lounge, covering a yawn. "Hey, hey, what's all the ruckus?" Combing his long fingers through his rumpled copper fringe, he knelt down to look his nephew in the eyes. "What's going on, little man? You yelled so loud, you woke me up."

"Sorry, Unca John." Logan pointed at the cookie jar. " I'm soooo hungry, but Gigi said no cookie."

John raised an eyebrow in mock scandal. "You mean, no cookies _ever?"_

Ruth spluttered. "Now _wait just a moment_ -I _never said_ -" She looked at Logan, who stood with bottom lip quivering and eyes filling with tears, then whirled on his uncle. "That was dirty pool, mister," she gritted, sotto voce.

John just gave her a wink and turned back to the sorrowing child. "Well, did she say that?"

"Y-yeah," Logan hiccuped.

"Did she _really?"_ John's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Think about it. What did she say?"

The boy frowned and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. "Dinner first?" he ventured.

"And then what?"

"...cookie after." Logan studied the tops of his miniature Chucks. He thought for a moment, then raised his head and ran to catch his great-grandmother around the knees. "Sorry, Gigi."

"It's all right, sweetie," Ruth soothed. "I just-hey!" She flung out an arm and pointed at the lanky redhead, who was reaching for the lid of the jar. "Get outta there!"

Sheepishly, John retracted his hand. "Sorry. Guess I was hungry too." He backed up, hands wide. "I'll go read a book."

"Wait, Unca John!" Logan turned to his great-grandmother and gave her a winning smile that looked too much like Gordon's for her comfort. "Gigi, can we, um, spit?"

Ruth frowned. "Spitting isn't nice."

The child giggled. "No, _spit!_ I have some, Unca John has some."

"Oh, I get it," John mused, moving back into the kitchen. "Grandma, would it be okay if Logan and I _split_ a cookie? That way we don't ruin our dinner?"

Ruth looked at both of them for a long moment, then threw up her hands in defeat. "You know, I'd forgotten how persuasive you boys were at his age." She flapped a hand toward the cookie jar. "Go ahead-but you two had better eat a second helping at dinner, both of you."

John-glad that Kayo hadn't made her famous 'monster' cookies that were the size of her husband's palm-chose a cookie and carefully split it precisely down the middle. He knelt down and handed one half to Logan, who munched happily. "That's called 'compromise,' Logan," John informed him, then took a bite of his own half.

"Thanks, Unca John." Logan grinned. "C'mprobize tastes good!"


	54. Lost and Found

p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"emstrongAN: Upon hearing the news that Mars Rover Opportunity had finally stopped responding...well, as a Thunderbirds fan, I couldn't leave that one alone, could I?/strong/em/p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"strongLost and Found/strong/p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"emBetter late than never./em/p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"Colonel Jeff Tracy, first human on Mars, surveyed the bleak red landscape, grinning from ear to ear. Captain Lee Taylor, his fellow astronaut and mission partner, bounced to a stop beside him, kicking up puffs of ruby dust./p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;""Look at that," Jeff breathed./p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;""Incredible," agreed Lee. He turned to Jeff, hand extended. "We made it, my friend."/p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"Jeff grinned and pushed Lee's hand aside to give him a hug–as much of one as their hardsuits allowed, anyway. "Yes indeed. All those folks back home sure did a great job getting us here." He stepped back, eyes alight. "In fact–" Jeff took a few more bounces forward, and called up a schematic on his wrist display. "I think…yes! Over here!"/p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;""Jeff?" Lee stood stunned in his fellow astronaut's wake, and would have scratched his head in confusion if he could reach it through his helmet. "What are you on about?"/p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;""I've always wanted to do this." Jeff was giddy as he stuttered to a stop, then toppled himself forward on hands and knees to scrabble through the Martian dirt. In a few moments, he sat back, and Lee heard his indrawn breath. "Hey there, old girl," he crooned. "We found you. Sorry it took us so long, but you're not alone anymore."/p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Lee hopped over and looked down just in time to see a squarish piece of metal half-buried in the sand. OPPORTUNITY read the engraved letters, and Lee's eyes went wide./p  
p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; line-height: 20px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;""Holy shit, Jeff, we've found Oppy!"/p 


	55. Flashpoint

_**AN: From a prompt: "His pupils vanished and his irises flared yellow." No idea where this came from or where it's going, but it sure was fun to write!**_

 **Flashpoint**

 _Being in the wrong place at the wrong time has...unforseen consequences._

Virgil stumbled back from Gordon as his brother lit up like a road flare. "Shit!"

"S'okay, Virg," he rumbled, the words tinged with the scree of wind and the shatter of crystal. "This bastard's not getting away this time."

Scott and John pounded up beside Virgil, helping him up from where he'd fallen flat on his ass. "What the–" Scott, his voice betraying his utter bewilderment at the– _thing–_ his brother had become. "Is–is that _Gordon?"_

The being was still clothed in blue, although it had somehow melded into one solid shade, and his baldric was missing–or, now that Virgil thought of it, had expanded into an envelope of energy that surrounded the aquanaut. Gordon's honey-blond waves danced as if he were standing in a high wind, and his eyes were brilliant spots of gold. The edges of his body were limned in the same bright shade, and his feet were hovering about two feet above the ground. He clenched his fists, and sun-colored energy dripped from between his fingers.

"Oh…my…God," John breathed. "I don't believe it."

"What?" Virgil and Scott said in chorus.

To Virgil's astonishment, there was a tiny smirk playing about John's lips as he regarded his luminous sibling. "Wait till I tell Brains," John was murmuring, almost to himself. "It actually worked."

Before Virgil could jump on John, demanding to know what he'd done to their little brother, Gordon threw back his head and spread his arms wide. He rose even higher, hovering above their heads on wings of pure brilliance. It was only then that the brothers turned their attention to the figure cowering on the ground: The Hood. The villain's clothes were dirty and torn, and he had one hand raised to shield his eyes from Gordon's light. For the first time, the man actually looked…afraid.

"Please," he rasped, and it took a moment for Virgil to realize that he was speaking to them. "Please, help me. Call him off."

Scott straightened and took a step toward the Hood. Obviously, he'd put whatever was going on far away enough that his focus was on the enemy sprawled at his feet. "To tell you the truth, I don't think we can." He shrugged, raising his head and shielding his own eyes. "Looks like he's reached critical mass. I'd say you're pretty well screwed."

"You don't understand," spit the Hood. "That much energy–that much power, it'll consume everything around him–including us!"

Virgil narrowed his eyes and scuttled forward to grab the Hood by the tattered front of his Saville Row shirt. "What do you know? Spill it or I set him off!" This last was a complete bluster, as he wasn't sure Gordon could even hear him, but it put the fear in the peridot irises just the same.

"He has to discharge it," the Hood stammered. "He's like a living fusion reactor. There's a reason the atom bomb was tested in a desert!"

Scott was glaring at John, but the redhead was gazing at Gordon with a rapt, almost beatific expression, as if he were beholding an angel. With a growl of frustration, Scott rounded on the Hood. "What about _Gordon?_ Since you seem to know so much about this, tell me what's gonna happen to my little brother!"

The Hood shook his head. "He'll be at the center; he won't be harmed, but everything else–there's no telling how big the blast radius will be!"

Virgil couldn't stand it any longer; he twisted his fist into the torn fabric and brought his wife's uncle–God, he was _related_ to this scumbucket, that alone made him want to have Gordon light him up like a Christmas tree–nose to nose. "You better not be lying to us," he snarled. "If anything happens to Gordon, you're gonna _wish_ he nuked you."

"I swear, it's the truth." His wide eyes stared at the angelic form, the light radiating from Gordon casting their shadows on the rocky ground. "Tell him he needs to find someplace–a cave, a bunker, the upper atmosphere, somewhere–and expend the energy." The light flared brighter. "Quickly."

Virgil dropped the Hood in the dirt and turned toward Gordon. His breath caught in his chest; Gordon was–there was no other word for it, he was _beautiful,_ golden and gleaming like a captive star. His face was serene, the brilliant eyes closed, his hands open and relaxed. Virgil's own hands twitched, wanting his paintbrush to capture the otherworldly scene. "Gordon!" he called.

The figure raised its head, eyes opening to ovals of gold and amber and citrine. "I heard him, Virg," he said. He exhaled, raising higher in the air. "This feels…good." He sighed. "I'll be back in a little while. I'm okay."

"Gordon!" This from Scott, the name tearing from his throat. "Don't…don't do anything stupid."

A smile. "Never." He raised his arms above his head and was gone.

Silence slammed into them. The wind dropped into stillness. One, two, three heartbeats went by, and then–

The ground began to shake beneath their feet, toppling them all to their knees. Beyond the treeline, the sky lit with a column of golden light, and the shockwave hit them like a hot summer wind. Virgil didn't even want to imagine what it looked like at ground zero, trees bent and blackened, sand fused and glassy, grass and shrubs turned to ash. And at the center, his little brother…

Virgil rounded on John. "What did you do to him, you bastard?"

John shook his head. "An accident. Gordon got too close. Brains was trying to dismantle it, to see how it worked, but it went off and Gordy–" His turquoise eyes flickered to something over Virgil's shoulder, and his jaw dropped. "Gordy."

Virgil turned just in time to see Gordon, clad in the remains of his iR blues, stumbling toward them. Smoke was rising from him, and when he drew nearer, Virgil could smell a faint odor of singed hair and hot neoprene. When the aquanaut raised his head to smile at them, the irises were his normal amber. He looked almost drunk, a goofy grin on his smudged face. "Gang's all here," he drawled, and then pitched forward, unconscious, into Virgil's arms.

As one, they all looked to the Hood, who had gotten to his feet but hadn't moved. "I can help him," he said quietly. "You'll need me."

Scott grabbed him, pulling a zip tie from his utility kit and binding his wrists behind him. "You'd better," he snarled, "Or like Virg said, you're gonna wish Gordon nuked you."


	56. Gaijin

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a rainy street in Japan, lit only by the light from a row of vending machines.**_

 **Gaijin**

 _John hides in plain sight by showing people what they expect to see._

John likes Japan.

It fits him, somehow, even though by looking at him, you wouldn't think he fits it. A tall, copper-haired _gaijin_ with turquoise eyes, towering above most of the population, really? Fitting in?

But he does, and he enjoys moving along in time with the sea of humanity. He has his haunts, his usual paths, the places where the chef behind the counter calls a cheery _Irrashimase_ as he pulls up a seat and orders ramen or sushi or a piece of fluffy cheesecake. Just the other day, John surprised the owner of the noodle shop by speaking knowledgeably about Japanese baseball (John admitted to being a fan of the Hanshin Tigers, which amused the man to no end).

This morning, on his way to the offices of TI Asia, a clutch of schoolgirls watch him as he stoops to have a conversation with a fat orange cat lounging on the sidewalk. When he looks up and smiles, offering the girls a quiet _Ohayo,_ they giggle behind their hands and flee in their gravity-defying socks and penny loafers.

He rides the train with everyone else, hanging on to the strap and dozing lightly as they slip along at 200mph. He exchanges polite bows and nods with the ladies staffing the reception desk, and defers to an elderly couple to let them enter the elevator ahead of him.

At first, everyone treats him like a foreigner, but they eventually begin to understand this pale young man with hair like a _kitsune's_ fur and eyes like the sea. The fact that he speaks the language flawlessly certainly helps, and while he drinks sake, he prefers tea. A nice young man, the older ladies say. Good manners, well spoken. Someone raised him right, they say.

There was a party not long ago that John was obliged to attend, as the representative of his father's company in Japan. The dinner was full of delicacies that many Westerners would have raised an eyebrow at, but to everyone's surprise, John didn't hesitate over the slices of raw fish or the pungent pickled vegetables. At the end of the night, he was definitely the most sober, having only drank a small quantity of sake and switched to tea long before the evening's end. The two geiko who hosted the party were very impressed by his good manners, and the younger of the two pulled back her decorated sleeve to refill his cup, a small smile playing about her painted lips.

"Ah, Tu-racy-san," she sighed. "Throw a party tomorrow night, and I'll dance and bring my _shamisen_."

John blushed, wondering how he would explain _that_ line item to the TI Accounts Payable department. "How about the night after?" he volleyed back, a polite code for _I'd love to but I don't think it's going to happen._

The geiko smirked at him; he got the joke. "I'll have to check my calendar."

Yes, it's precisely this place where he might stand out that John is able to be invisible. After a moment's pondering over his odd looks, most folks put him out of their minds, which enables him to be just what they see.

Nothing of who he really is, or what he's really doing in the Land of the Rising Sun is ever apparent to anyone, which suits him just fine. Tonight, he is just one more shadowy figure scurrying through the rainy Tokyo night, his pale skin glowing in the light of a row of vending machines.


	57. Drinking and Driving

_**AN: Inspired by a half-humorous text exchange between a very drunk host and a party guest who discovers that the host has mistakenly chartered an Uber to take them "home."**_

 **Trigger warning: Beginning stages of alcoholism.**

 **Drinking and Driving**

 _Gordon needs someone to look after him...make that several someones._

 ****Parker met them on the drive, arms folded, looking down his hawk-like nose at the nondescript car. The driver nearly sideswiped him, so fixed were her eyes on the imposing facade of the house, but he was quick and ended up with his hands planted on her hood.

"That'll be enough, my girl," he gritted, and she gulped, duly chastened.

"Sorry, sir." She threw a glance over her shoulder as he moved around to open the rear passenger side door. "He's a bit worse for wear," she informed him.

He made no comment, but leaned in and tapped her fare on his tuxedo-clad shoulder. "Master Gordon," he called. "Come on, now." He reached up and gently gripped the younger man's chin, rolling the face toward him. "Home again, all ashore."

The blond's eyes flickered, and he raised one hand to his head. "Uuuuugh, what the-" He caught sight of Parker's disapproving face, and grinned. "Hey, Nosey. What's shakin', bacon?"

The set of Parker's mouth told the driver what he thought of the younger man's greeting, but again, he made no comment. Instead, the grey-haired man, though the younger outweighed him by at least forty pounds, pulled his charge from the seat in one fluid motion. When the blond was propped upright against the fender, the elder produced a wallet and presented the driver with a black AMEX. She ran the card and handed both it and her tablet to him, her eyebrows rising briefly at the generous tip he'd authorized as she took the tablet back.

"Thanks," she murmured. "D'ye need any help getting him up the stairs?"

"'E's gettin' 'imself up the stairs," he assured the girl-and his charge-grimly. "H'off we go, Master Gordon."

By the time the car was making dust clouds down the gravel drive, Gordon and Parker had gained the steps. Halfway up they were met by Scott, an elegant column of night-black Armani against the marble staircase. The elder Tracy wore the same expression of disappointment as Parker had, but there was also worry at the back of his sapphire gaze. "What were you thinking, Gordy?" he wondered aloud, taking Gordon's other arm and flinging it over his shoulder. "Pen's worried sick."

Gordon raised his head to squint at Scott. "She's not angry?"

Scott and Parker shared a glance over Gordon's head. "Probably, but more worried right now," Scott hedged.

The aquanaut sighed. "She's angry."

Inside the foyer, Penny was waiting for them, her color high under her elaborate hairstyle. Her ice-blue satin bodice shone under the lights, and her bare shoulders had been dusted with a subtle shimmer of powder. Her nude beige skirt was embroidered thickly with glittering blue thread and sparkling sky blue ribbon, giving the illusion that a flock of translucent butterflies had alighted on her dress. Scott swallowed at the sight of her; he'd loved her once, many years ago, but her eyes were not for him. That had never stopped the breath from catching in his chest whenever he saw her, especially dressed as she was tonight.

"You're an idiot," he muttered in his brother's ear. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah." Gordon's eyes were also fixed on Penny. "Sorry."

Scott snorted. "Not me who you should be apologizing to, bud."

The trio stopped when there was four feet of black-and-white parquet between them and Penelope, and for a moment, the tableau held.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice echoing in the cavernous space.

"I'm drunk," Gordon replied. "Really, really drunk."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

There was an electric pause, and Scott held his breath.

Penelope held out a hand to her husband of nearly two years, crossing the floor on her satin slippers to take his arm. "Let's get you to bed," she said softly, then raised her head to pin Scott with a sapphire gaze of her own. "Please make our apologies; Gordon's become...unwell."

Scott nodded and turned back toward the ballroom, while Parker took up a position at the bottom of the stairs.

Neither envied what Gordon would face in the morning.


	58. Welcome

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a plush suite onboard a private airplane.**_

 **Welcome**

 _Penny finds travel tedious-except on Tracy-One._

Penny detests travel. Maybe it's because she does so much of it, but sometimes just the sight of her luggage or an airplane makes her cringe.

Except _this_ airplane.

Tracy-One is not the fanciest, nor the fastest plane she's ever been on, but it is by far and away the most comfortable. Jack Phillips, the long-time pilot of the family's non-Thunderbird aircraft, is waiting for her at the steps with a smile and a fond "'Morning, your Ladyship," and suddenly her heart is at ease.

When she boards, she finds one corner of the plush guest quarters has been made up for her, and she grins as she sees Ruth Tracy's hand in each detail. From the tiny bouquet of lavender in the wall vase to the rose-gold linens on the bed, everything speaks of welcome and anticipation of her visit. A quiet knock sounds on the door, and Jack hands her a diminutive cup that reeks of dark roast.

"Cabin crew is off today," he says with a wink; T1 is his baby, and he's never shared it with anyone except Jeff himself. "Galley's open, so please don't stand on ceremony."

"Thank you, Captain Phillips." She follows him back into the sitting area and claims a seat for take off as he makes his final preparations for departure. "And thank you for coming all this way just for me."

"No trouble at all," he replies over his shoulder from the flight deck. "How's Parker, gout still giving him fits?"

"He's recuperating. He asked me to thank you for the Louis L'Amour novels; he's shamelessly indulging his inner cowboy even with his feet up."

Jack chuckles. "I know the feeling."

It's this kind of familiarity that she misses at the Manor, and she sinks back into the plush seat with her demitasse and a contented sigh. Like slipping off a heavy coat in preparation for the island climate, she lets her title fall away to just be Mrs. Gordon Tracy, heading to the second place she calls home. They've decided to split the year between the island and England, and so far, things are working out. Virgil has had to make a detour to pick Gordon up on their way to a rescue a few times, but nothing has come up that's given Scott pause, and so they've been given the blessing to continue.

Jack exits the cockpit to make a final check of the cabin, then pulls the main door shut and secures it. He turns to smile at his lone passenger. "Where to, milady?" He quips.

She smiles back. "Home, Captain."


	59. The Patient Heart

_**AN: Inspired by a quote: "Sometimes it's better to be kind than right. We don't need an intelligent mind that speaks, but a patient heart that truly listens."-Unknown**_

 **The Patient Heart**

 _John finds out that the kindness we show to others can come back to us at precisely the moment we need it_.

 **Warning: possible trigger for homophobia and common slurs.**

"But Grandma, he's wrong!"

Ruth Tracy sighed, wishing once more that Lucille had lived to see this day–and maybe could help her in talking down the sensitive second-born, who was currently stalking up and down the worn boards of the barn floor, arms crossed over his thin chest and his turquoise eyes darkened to stormy teal.

"John, sweetheart, no one's saying that he's right," she soothed. "You came up with the right answer. You studied hard and came by it honestly. Unfortunately, he just got lucky."

"And Dr. Hall gave him the scholarship. That's bullshit."

"You can express disappointment without being a trash mouth."

"Sorry." John stopped pacing and leaned against the wall of the barn, eyes locked on the worn toes of his Chucks. "Pete Darby let him cheat off him."

Ruth's eyes widened. "That's a serious accusation. I hope you didn't tell Dr. Hall."

"No." The copper brows drew together even tighter. "I should have, though. That'd fix him."

"And you wouldn't be the person I _know_ you to be–the person I _raised_ you to be."

He gave a nearby hay bale a vicious kick. "But it's not fair!"

"I know, sweetheart." Ruth stepped up to him, having to tilt her head back to look into his eyes; when had he gotten so tall? "You're going to meet a lot of people and go through a lot of things in life that aren't fair, but you have to be the bigger person."

John scowled. "I don't think I can."

Ruth raised her hands to smooth his high cheekbones with her thumbs. "Yes you can. You're a Tracy." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "And what do we say about Tracys?"

"That we can do anything," John mumbled.

"Louder, son. I can't hear you."

John cracked a smile. "Tracys can do anything," he repeated.

"Louder!" She grinned. "Tell everyone who cares and a few who don't."

John laughed and flung his arms wide. "Tracys! Can! Do! Anything!" he yelled, spooking a chicken into a squawking flutter down from the rafters.

"That's the spirit!" Ruth hugged him. "Now go get washed up, it's time for supper."

 **OoOoOoO**

"Hey, Tracy–"

John shut his locker to reveal Dean Hughes–and promptly turned away without saying a word.

"Hey, come on, man." Dean danced in front of John, backpack in hand. "I need to talk to you."

"I've got nothing to say to you," John spat. "You got the top mark. You got the scholarship. You're going to Space Camp. Have a great time and get the hell out of my life."

"Just stop, okay?" the other boy pleaded. "I'm not going to Space Camp."

John stopped in his tracks, then whirled on Dean, eyes ablaze. "All that and you're not even going?"

Dean looked away, jaw knotting. "I can't. My dad's in the hospital. He might not make it, and if I went, I'm scared that…I'm scared that he'll die while I'm away." Dean swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Go ahead, just say it."

"Say what?"

"That I'm a cheater and a big wussy baby and I suck." Dean's tears were coming faster now, and John grabbed his shirt to drag him into the boys' restroom.

"Why would I say that?" John got a paper towel and handed it to Dean, who dropped his backpack on the tiles and wiped his eyes. "I didn't know about your dad, I'm sorry."

"You knew I cheated though." Dean blew his nose. "I could tell you knew, when Dr. Hall looked at our papers."

John sighed. "Yeah, I knew. But I wasn't gonna say anything." He shrugged. "I figured that if I did, it'd just make me a snitch and everyone would say I was being a spoiled brat."

Dean couldn't help a smile. "Aren't you, though? With all the stuff your old man's doing?"

"He says it's all going into our college funds." John rolled his eyes. "And yeah, he might have bought a really bitchin' car. And maybe we went to Aspen for Christmas." He chuckled. "Okay, yeah, but still." He sighed and gripped the other boy's shoulder. "Dean, I'd have given you the scholarship, but I'd worked really hard on that paper. I wanted Dr. Hall to say I had the top mark."

"You _always_ have the top mark." Dean managed a tight smile. "I just–my old man's pretty sick, and I've been a total screw-up for a long time. I thought this was my chance to make him proud, before…" he trailed off, turning away.

John moved to stand in front of Dean, ducking his head to look into the other boy's face. "I know. My mom died when I was ten. It sucks." He drew him into a hug, surprised how Dean clung and sobbed into John's sweater. "It sucks bigtime."

At that moment, the door opened, and three boys walked in. The first, a tall boy with icy blond hair and cold blue eyes, scanned John and Dean as they jumped apart. "Hey there, faggots," he snarled. "Havin' a little faggy hump fest in here?"

"Hey Daly, I bet Tracy bottoms," sneered the dark-headed tough to the blond's right. "'Oh, Hughsey, give it to me, you big hunk of a man!'" The three newcomers collapsed in obscene laughter.

Dean pushed John behind him. "Just waiting for you, Daly," he drawled. "Though your boys are gonna have to wait outside; I'm okay with threesomes, but orgies gross me out."

John choked on his own spit. Dean was as straight as an arrow, but from the look on Daly's face, the blond was halfway convinced. "Dean," John wheezed, "let's just get the hell outta here, okay? He's not worth it."

"Yeah, listen to your ginger twink boyfriend," the dishwater blond to Daly's right snickered. "Scramble on outta here, ladies. Go find somewhere else to play hide the sausage."

"Good idea." To John's utter surprise, Dean hooked an arm around his shoulders and planted a kiss on his lips. "Come on, Johnny. It's getting too damn crowded around here."

The other three, rendered speechless, gave them a wide berth as they left the restroom.

Once outside, Dean dropped his hand from John's shoulder, but John stayed on his heels until they got to the outer corridor. "Dean–"

"I'm sorry, I couldn't just leave you in there," Dean shot back, stopping in the shadow of the office building. "Those guys are assholes." He shrugged. "Besides. It's the least I can do for you, after being such a jerk."

John blushed. "You didn't have to, but I'm glad you did." He glanced back the way they came, but thankfully there was no sign of Daly or his acolytes. "I think your dad would want you to go to Space Camp."

The other boy stared down at his shoes for a long moment. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And I hope you have a really good time. For real."

Dean smiled. "Thanks, John." His smile melted. "I'm sorry if I, you know, outed you."

John shrugged. "I think everyone pretty much knows. Daly's the only one who cares, and he's a punk." A grin. "I think he's mad because his girlfriend dumped him right before Prom. If a queer like John Tracy can get a date, that just pisses him off."

"I could set you up with my girlfriend's sister," Dean offered. "She's nice. Maybe that'd confuse Daly enough to leave you alone." They both laughed. "Seriously, if that guy ever gets in your face about it, let me know and I'll deal with him."

John rolled his eyes. "You'll have to get in line. I have a big brother who'll wipe the floor with him. And my younger brothers, too. My little brother can bite his ankles." He held out his hand, and Dean shook it. "Incidentally, if you ever need a tutor–"

"I'll know just who to ask."


	60. A Christmas Secret

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a young man and woman holding hands, dressed in holiday attire. Set in TOS-verse.**_

 **A Christmas Secret**

 _Amongst the magic of a Tracy Island Christmas, Tin-Tin and Virgil keep a bittersweet secret._

"You're looking festive tonight."

Tin-Tin turned from putting the finishing touches on the crudite platter to see Virgil standing in the doorway, a half-eaten cookie in his hand. She smiled, hoping he'd chalk up the flush in her cheeks to the overheated kitchen.

"Why, thank you, Virgil. So do you." She swept him with a peridot gaze, taking in the soft gleam of his polished loafers and the knife pleats on his tailored dark trousers. His Aran sweater made her want to wrap herself in his arms and pet the chocolate velvet of his jacket. As always, those smoldering amber eyes above his generous mouth gave an uptick to her pulse, and she longed to run her fingers through his thick chestnut hair.

He polished off the cookie and pushed away from the door frame, slipping both hands into his pockets as he crossed the tile toward her. "Quite a spread," he quipped, with a nod to the platters of cold meats and fancy cheeses, the plate of meticulously decorated cookies, and the fruitcake covered with a snowy mound of boiled frosting. "As usual, Grandma and your father have outdone themselves. I don't know if anyone will be able to fit into their uniforms after tomorrow."

She laughed. "I suppose Scott will have everyone doing extra calisthenics on the twenty-sixth." She plucked a celery stick from the tray and handed it to him. "Two of my favorite maxims this time of year are: 'Everything in moderation' and 'Christmas comes but once a year.'"

Virgil grinned and stuck the celery in his chest pocket, the leaves becoming an impromptu boutonière. "Very wise, Miss Kyrano." To her surprise, Virgil shot a quick look over his shoulder at the door, then leaned in and cupped her jaw to bring her in for a sweet, lingering kiss. "I've been wanting to do that all day."

Tin-Tin blinked, her breath quickening in the tiny space between them. "Oh, Virgil, you mustn't–"

"I have to," he murmured, amber eyes searching her face. "I'll go crazy if I don't. I love you."

Tears stung her eyes. "Alan–"

Virgil dropped his hand and shoved it back into his pocket, and took a step away. "I see." He studied the toes of his shoes for a moment, then looked back up at her. "Well, I just wanted a moment…to wish you a happy Christmas before everything got busy." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll see you downstairs."

Tin-Tin bit her lip, tears quivering on her lashes. "Virgil, I–" Before she realized what she was doing, she crossed the room in two steps and landed in his arms, letting herself dissolve into him, letting the feeling of his lips against hers resonate from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. When they parted, his eyes were like smoky quartz, and she knew that if she kissed him again, he wouldn't be able to help anything he did afterwards.

As much as she wanted to find out just what Virgil would do, she couldn't do that to Alan, not on Christmas Eve.

"I love you," Virgil repeated. "I'm not sorry."

"I know." She stepped away, smoothing the twin wings of dark hair that framed her face, straightening her red sweater and plaid skirt with trembling hands. She found his hand and clasped it with hers. "I just don't know what to do."

Virgil squeezed her fingers. "We'll figure it out. Maybe not tonight, but we will." He leaned over and gave her a brotherly kiss on her forehead. "Happy Christmas, Tin-Tin."

She smiled. "Happy Christmas, Virgil."


	61. Family Man

_**AN: Inspired by a prompt: "I'm dying, but that's not the biggest problem I'm facing right now."**_

 **Family Man**

 _Some rescues you never get over…_

Scott kept his eyes on the line he was securing to his rescue's battered frame. "Nah, you're not dying," he said, the reassurance coming easily-perhaps a bit too easily-to his tongue. "Maybe having a really bad day, but—"

A bloodied hand gripped Scott's carbon fiber vambrace, and he looked up into a pair of calm grey eyes. "I'm _dying_ , son. I was before you got here." The man gave a liquid cough that raised the hair on the back of Scott's neck no matter how many times he heard it. "Recent events have just…sped things up a bit." He smiled. "Fine with me. I was getting tired of chemo anyway." The man laid back against the shattered concrete. "You married, son?"

Scott rechecked the harness, tugging on various lines and anchors, anything to avoid the man's gaze. "Not yet. You?"

"Sure was, to the sweetest girl on earth. Roselle was her name." Another cough. "We had a son, Timothy. Lost them to a drunk driver three years ago this Christmas. Can't wait to see them."

Scott nodded, managing a smile. "Sounds like a wonderful family."

"It was. Rosie and I started out a little rocky, but we both figured out we needed to work together on this thing called a marriage. By the time Tim came along, we were doing okay." He gestured at the stained wallet in his limp left hand. "Do me a favor, son, and grab that for me? Some reason it's quit working on me." He gave a dark chuckle. "Warranty must have expired."

Scott reached for the object, deciding (for the moment anyway) not to tell the man that a pane of fallen glass had neatly severed his arm at the elbow. "Good looking kid," he said, smiling down at the photo of a handsome boy in a baseball uniform. He splayed the wallet, revealing Tim's photo on one side and a family photo on the other, and propped it on the fallen slabs where the man could see it.

"Thanks." The man sighed, his eyes only for the faces of his family.

He did not draw breath again.

Scott watched him for a moment, noted the time on his chrono, then stood and surveyed the scene without seeing any of it. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving the fingers knotted in the dirty, product-stiff strands for a moment before turning back to the dead man.

"I hope you're with them," he murmured, watching as an inbound Thunderbird Two shook the dust into life.


	62. Mama

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a man kissing a woman's belly.**_

 **Mama**

 _Newly pregnant, Lucy tries to rest. Her besotted husband has other plans._

Honestly, Lucy thought, as Jeff kissed his way up her still-flat abdomen, one might think that announcing to one's husband that one was pregnant with one's fifth child might dampen said husband's ardor just a fraction. However, it seemed like the moment the words had left her lips, "I'm pregnant," the man's hands hadn't left her body.

She'd been drowsing in their bed, trying to dispel an afternoon headache, when he crept in and slid onto the bed beside her. His hands had immediately slipped under her sweater and past the waistband of her jeans—still her regular ones, since she was only eight weeks gone. When his fingers teased at the edge of her lacy underwear, she squirmed and covered his hand with hers.

"The kids," she muttered.

"Gordon and Virgil are napping. John's at Cub Scouts with Scott. Mom is watching a movie." His fingers slid lower. "I've got you all to myself, Mama."

Lucy didn't exactly resist, and gasped as his fingers found their target. Hormones were conspiring to make her extra-sensitive, and before she realized it, stars were bursting behind her eyes. "Jefferson—oh—!"

He chuckled low in his chest. "That's my girl." His fingers did not relent, however, and she writhed beneath his hand. "Come on, you've got more, I know you do."

Lucy stuffed a pillow against her face and let out a torrid moan, along with some choice words she did not want the world at large to hear. She'd entrusted her body to him on their wedding night, and now after seven years of marriage, he knew how to play it like a fine instrument.

In just a few moments, she was tumbling down again, gasping his name. He finally withdrew his hand, rising up on his hands and knees to ply his lips to her belly. "You…are…beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

"Even with four sets of stretch marks?" She quipped. "Soon to be five?"

He grinned against her skin, and popped the button on her jeans. "Even more beautiful," he assured her, the words hot on the skin below her navel. "Reminds me of how they got there."

"Oh, so that's it," she giggled. "I've always wond—ah, Jeff—!"

He was too busy to laugh this time, and frankly, she didn't have the breath to.


	63. Presence

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of steaks and lobster tails on a rustic board.**_

 **Presence**

 _Virgil and John help Scott celebrate his birthday._

"Ladybird to Tracy Island. Scott, honey, are you there?"

Scott leans over and taps the comm on Jeff's desk. "This is Tracy Island. Yes, Grandma, I'm here. What did you need?"

"Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I'm so sorry about this."

Scott is glad the call is audio only, and she can't see his grin. "That's okay, Grandma. I'll survive without everyone singing 'Happy Birthday' just this once."

"I could call John and he could patch everyone in–"

"No, no, that's okay," he replies, perhaps just a bit too quickly. "Plus, Kayo's on radio silence, so that won't work. Really, I'm okay." He glances up at the balcony, where Virgil is daubing moodily at a mottled canvas. "Besides, Virgil's here, so I'm not by myself. You and Kip go have fun in Miami."

If she were by herself, he thinks, they wouldn't be having this conversation, but since Kip's with her, she's proving much easier to convince. "Well, if you're sure. I'll bring you back something nice."

He really wishes she wouldn't–really, _really_ wishes she wouldn't–but she's his grandmother and one doesn't hurt the feelings of one's beloved grandmother, especially on one's birthday. "Looking forward to it. Have a good trip."

"See you later, dear. Ladybird out."

Scott sighed, then clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. "Time to get this party started."

A muttered curse comes from the balcony, and Virgil tosses his brush down so hard, it clatters and rolls. It falls off the edge, and Scott catches it neatly, avoiding getting splattered by the still-wet paint on the bristles. "Time to take a break, Picasso," Scott calls. "Come on down and get the coals started."

Virgil stares at the offending canvas as if his pupils could burn a hole in it, then tosses his hands up and clumps heavy-footed to the stairwell. "Yeah, this isn't going anywhere, might as well."

"Thanks for letting me know where I stand," Scott quips, handing Virgil the brush. "Just slightly below random paint blobs."

"Not random," Virgil counters. "Sorry. You know how I get when Kayo's dark." He runs a hand through his hair, skewing it from its usual artful construction. "This is supposed to be your night." He whacks Scott on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, big bro."

Scott flashes his eyebrows at his middle sibling. "It'll be happy, all right. You go get the coals on while I get the libations."

"Nothing too deadly," Virgil warns on his way out to the pool deck. "I'd like to be coherent when Kay walks in."

"Hmm, I'd say she's got you whipped," Scott shoots back, but when he returns, he's carrying six longnecks in a dishpan full of ice. Just to show there's no hard feelings, Virgil tosses him his multitool, which Scott uses to pop the caps from two of the icy bottles. Scott hands both tool and beer to him, and they clink bottles. "To your very good health, sir."

Virg tips the bottle up and stirs the coals. "Shouldn't I be saying that to you, since it's your birthday?"

Scott shrugs and hikes himself onto the stone table near the grill. "You just did. I'll take it."

The iR chime sounds, and Scott taps his wrist comm. "Hi, John."

Once again, it's audio only, but their space monitor's irritation comes through without a problem. "You didn't know it was me."

"Who else?" Virgil shoots back, raking the coals into an even layer and settling the grate back onto the grill. "What's up?"

"Just thought I'd check in." This is iR-speak for 'nothing's going on right now, but the minute I say the words, all hell will break loose.' Nothing is ever said about things being 'quiet' or anything of the sort. It's a kind of superstition and it doesn't always hold true, but better safe than sorry.

Scott takes a drink and swings his legs a little. "What are you up to, spaceman?"

"Oh, about twenty-two thousand meters," John says, dry as toast. "Happy birthday, by the way."

"Thanks. When are you gonna be down?"

"Oh, I–"

Virgil grabs Scott's wrist and puts his lips close to the comm so there's no mistaking his words. "John. Get your ass down here and celebrate your brother's birthday."

"But–"

"John, I swear to God I'll tell EOS to lock the restroom."

Scott isn't entirely sure, but he thinks he just might hear a girlish giggle over the line. "He'll do it, too; you know he will."

A sigh. "Fine. Be there in ten. Thunderbird Five out."

Scott gives Virgil a fistbump. "Nicely done."

"Eh, he's looking pale. Boy needs some protein in him, and I don't mean in a smoothie." Virgil punctuates this pronouncement by slapping three thick ribeye steaks onto the grill, where they hiss furiously in the soft evening air. The humidity of the summer has faded somewhat, and a gentle breeze plays with the fuzzy tops of the palms lining the runway on the other side of the pool. All in all, Scott couldn't have asked for a better night if he'd requested it via special order.

They shoot the shit about this and that, and Scott is on his second beer by the time John appears at the door, dressed in jeans and his favorite NASA tee-shirt, his hoodie tossed around his shoulders against the breeze. Virgil's right; the redhead is looking pale, and Scott is fairly sure that John is thinner than he was when he went up, but he merely hands John a beer and clinks bottles with him as well.

"Live long and prosper," John intones, and takes a swig. "Hmm. Not bad." He drags a lounge chair closer and flops down, beer held over his concave stomach. "What's on the menu?"

Virgil spears one of the perfectly seared steaks with a long-tined fork and lays it on a platter. "Man food," he replies. "Puts hair on your chest."

John eyes the heather-grey fabric on his torso, raising an eyebrow. "I'll take your word for it." His turquoise eyes widen as Virgil hands him a plate with a hulking piece of beef, a ruby-red lobster tail, and a steaming baked potato loaded with everything from sour cream to bacon bits. "Uh. I don't think I eat this much in a year, much less in one sitting."

Virgil hands Scott a similar plate, then sits down before his own as John joins them at the table. "Don't worry. Gordon and Alan will slick up what you don't finish."

"Virg, this beef is still mooing." John stabs the steak, grimacing when it leaks greasy red.

"Is not, it's medium rare." Virgil slices off a bite and chews with relish. "Your problem is that you don't eat enough of these to know what's good and what's not."

John scrapes off half the sour cream and fluffs the inside of his potato. "Yeah, well, you try eating freeze dried beef, and see how you like it. Stuff is nasty with a capital N."

Scott wipes his mouth (he set the table with napkins, no cretins in the Tracy family, Grandma would be proud) and takes another swallow of beer. "That's why you need to come for dinner more often, Jaybird. We don't bite, really."

John squeezes lemon on his lobster. "That's not what Kayo says."

Virgil nearly spews his mouthful of potato all over the birthday boy, who just hoots with laughter.

And so they pass the evening, eased by good food and alcohol and memories of good times long ago and not. Their father enters the conversation from time to time, but no one dwells on it, or lingers on it with any sadness or regret. They miss him, but tonight, it seems to Scott as if any moment, their father will come down the stairs to join them. He lets himself believe that Jeff is just out of sight, and as they pour whiskey and light cigars, he's almost convinced it's true.

Late into the gorgeous night, they turn in to sleep the sleep of the slightly drunk and perfectly content.

The next morning, the house is once again full of the call of voices and footsteps racing up and down the stairs. Gordon and Alan, having been to a video game convention with Moffie and Brains, have come home loaded with fun bits of swag and are eager to show off their haul. Later in the day, Kayo slips in, sporting a vivid shiner and a cut on her cheek, but her eyes are glowing with the satisfaction of a job well done and the promise of thrilling stories to tell. Grandma comes in last, loaded with flamingo salt and pepper shakers, an authentic Key Lime pie (shipped in its special container with dry ice) and a diminutive snack-sized pineapple for each member of the family. Her eyes are twinkling above her sunburned nose, and Scott decides he really doesn't want to know what went on under the striped umbrella she shared with Kip.

"Did you have a good birthday, dear?" she asks with a frown. "I felt so bad leaving you two here by yourselves."

"It was good," Scott reassures her. "John came down, and we had a great time."

She hugs him. "That's all that matters, then."

That afternoon, as he sees John to the space elevator (apparently the full twenty-four hours of his birthday is all Scott's getting, but he'll take it), he smiles at the tall redhead. John looks rested, and there's a softness in his face and color in his cheeks that hadn't been there the night before. "Thanks for coming, Jay," he says, and means it.

"Thanks for having a birthday so I could celebrate it."

To Scott's surprise, John reaches out for a hug, and truly, it's the best present of all.

-end-


	64. Lady In Red

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a young woman applying lipstick in a mirror.**_

 **Lady in Red**

 _Virgil watches Kayo prepare for an evening out._

Kayo didn't really need makeup.

Of course, there were times when wearing it was part of her cover on some assignment or other, and yes, sometimes the social responsibilities she held as part of the Tracy family called for the judicious application of makeup. Most of the time, she went for subtle hues that complimented the fine features and lovely complexion she had been blessed with.

However, there were times when the situation called for drama. Cat-eye liner and cherry red lipstick always made Virgil's pulse quicken just a bit.

Tonight, he tied his tie and watched her outline her lush mouth with a shade of lipstick that would make Thunderbird Three jealous. Time and again, Kayo loaded her brush from a brand-new tube and applied the color to her skin with just as much care as he took at his easel. When she was satisfied, she laid down her brush and picked up her eyeliner pen, decorating her lids with a sexy flare that elongated her faintly almond-shaped eyes.

She looked up and caught him staring at her, and her smile made him want to bear her back to the bed and kiss the scarlet lipstick off.

"Stop that," she purred, capping the pen and laying it on the dresser.

"Stop what?"

She chuckled. "I know that look, Virgil Grissom."

He laughed and went to gather her in his arms. "You think they'd miss us?"

"Scott would be furious if we didn't show."

Virgil kissed her bare shoulder and started up her neck. "Mmm, he's just jealous."

"Probably," she agreed, stepping out of his reach to clip on a pair of diamond earrings that had been her mother's. "Let's not provoke him, though."

He sighed and caught up his snowy silk scarf. "You're right, as usual." He grinned. "But can I convince you to wear something special to a very exclusive after-party?"

She raised an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

He turned back and grabbed up the tube of lip color, laying it in her palm. "Your ensemble for the evening, my love."

Kayo laughed. "With an invitation like that, how could I say no?"


	65. The Dying of the Light

_**AN: Inspired by a photo of a young couple comforting each other in the midst of a field of urban debris.**_

 **The Dying of the Light**

 _Out on a date with his new girlfriend, Scott ends up being the one needing rescue._

It was the last place he'd ever expected trouble.

Of course, it was his job to expect trouble everywhere. Later, he wouldn't be able to excuse himself for daring to just have a good time with a cute girl, not until Virgil and Grandma talked him down, anyway.

He heard it every day: "It happened so fast." He'd been there, once, on a snowy hillside that buried his mother and Alan in a thundering, slithering mass of white faster than any racing car or speeding train he'd ever seen. Tonight, they were enjoying the concert, cheering and laughing and singing along–and then the earth was moving under their feet. The buildings around them swayed and snapped, stones and concrete tumbling like those clots of snow, to crash at their feet. Someone screamed. A knot of girls went down, pummeled by masonry. Not ten feet from Scott, a chunk of grey stone clipped the back of a man's head, sending both man and rock to the ground in a hail of blood and debris.

Then everyone was screaming, some choosing to shelter in place with their arms over their heads, glow bracelets vivid against the darkness as the stage lights went out. Many more were racing toward the exits, stumbling, tripping over each other, and Scott realized too late that no one would ever be able to hear him yelling.

He grabbed Cindy's hand and plastered his mouth against her ear. "Move with me," he shouted. "Don't let go."

She nodded, and he pressed a brief kiss to her hair. Then they ran like hell, trying to keep up with the crowd as best they could. More than once, he felt his shoes dig into something softer than grass, but he forced himself to keep going. No way to be of any help if he got trapped in a mass of bodies.

His comm was vibrating a hole in his jeans, but he couldn't stop to answer it. He knew John would see what was going on, and direct everyone else accordingly. Right now, there was one place he needed to be: Out.

They were almost to the exit when Cindy's hand jerked out of his, and he went down, tucking into a crouch as he did so. The onslaught of panicked concertgoers surged around him, dousing him with beer, spattering him with blood, and kicking him in the ribs. He crouched even tighter, protecting his head with his arms and trying to become as small as possible. He didn't dare raise his head, or risk having it taken off at his shoulders.

He hadn't prayed since his father had disappeared, but he found himself pleading: _Let Cindy be okay._

"Come on! Gotta get outta here!" An authoritative voice cut into the miasma of sound, and strong hands were pulling him up. "Now run!" A flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye; one of the security guards that had ringed the perimeter during the event.

"No, my girlfriend–" Scott ran with him, but kept his eyes moving, searching for any sign of her. Was she sitting on a decorative planter, nose dripping blood onto her white skirt? No, she had been wearing shorts. Denim shorts, cut off just below the sweet curve of her butt; he'd lingered a few steps behind her as they went through the turnstiles that night, and she turned and caught him looking.

Ages ago, now.

Everywhere he looked, it was the same chaos he saw every day–except now, she was in the middle of it. He scanned the skyline, wondering if Virgil was en route. The world tipped, and he crashed back to hands and knees on the asphalt, ears ringing.

He swiped at his head, and gawped as his hand came away bloody. Damn, he'd been hit. Thankfully, the crowd had thinned, and all that was left were those who chose not to move, or couldn't.

Nearby, a woman sobbed. Sirens wailed. The smell of burnt electronics and spilled beer filled the air, and he struggled to his feet, hand to his forehead. "Cin…Cindy?" he called, weakly at first, but gaining volume. "Cynthia Marie Lowell?" A girl hurried past, eyes frozen wide, shaking her head. "Cindy! It's Scott!"

"…Scotty?"

The voice was nearly at his feet, and he stopped his swaying progress long enough to look down. A young woman in denim shorts, a denim shirt knotted to expose the crystal shimmering in her navel, a red bandeau top underneath.

No. The bandeau had been white.

Scott crashed once again to his knees, his eyes focusing slowly on the six inch piece of rebar sticking out of Cindy's chest. Her blood was oozing out around the projectile, staining her top and spreading across her tanned skin.

Even through the pounding in his head, his training held, and he didn't react. Instead, he grasped her hands in his and looked down into her eyes. "Help's coming," he assured her. Whether that help got there in time for her, that remained to be seen, but experience had told him never to lie to rescue victims.

"Sco-ohhht," she gasped, her breath hitching. "Oh God, I–" She coughed, and dribbles of red appeared at the corners of her mouth. "Not–enou-hough t-time–"

"Shhh, they're coming," he hushed, wiping her face with what remained of his shirt. "Keep your eyes on me."

She smiled weakly. "No, I mean–not enough time…to tell you…" She coughed again. "I lo-hov-ve y-you, Sc–" She shuddered with agony, and he went down on one elbow to rest his forehead against hers.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "We were just starting." He caressed her cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Do-hon-n't be s-sorry," she managed, giving him another brave smile. "Just–kiss–me."

He did so, ignoring the taste of iron, taking his time to imprint the feel of her warm lips against his. He felt a hot exhale against his mouth, and she went still.

He was lying in her arms when Virgil found him, and for a heart-stopping moment, Virgil was sure they were both dead. He reached out one gloved hand to touch his brother's shoulder–thank God, it was warm, unlike the girl he was clinging to.

"Scott." He squeezed the shoulder gently. "Come on, we need to go."

"Virgil?" Scott sat up, face and shirt bloody, though Virgil wasn't entirely sure it was all his. "Cindy–" He looked down at the girl, his breath catching at her half-open, glazed eyes and rusty lips.

"She's gone. I'm sorry." A sigh. "We need to get your head looked at."

"Cin, she–" Scott was boneless as Virgil pulled him to his feet. "Oh, God, Virg, she–"

Virgil took his brother's face between his hands and stared into his eyes. "She's gone, Scott. We can't do anything for her now." He stroked back the matted brown hair. "You were with her at the end. She wasn't alone."

Scott collapsed into Virgil's arms and wept.

The hospital was a mess, but an organized one, and soon Scott had been scanned, stitched, and bandaged. He'd been given the okay to go, with strict instructions against operating heavy machinery for at least a week. Now they were walking away, both in civvies so as not to attract any undue attention. The locals were handling it now, and both Tracys needed to take their battered hides and shattered hearts home to start healing.

They were all the way to Thunderbird Two when Scott finally spoke. "I didn't say it," he mused, apropos of nothing.

"What didn't you say?" Virgil calmly flipped switches in prep for takeoff.

"I didn't say 'I love you' back." Scott sighed heavily. "It was too soon. We were just hitting our groove, you know?" He shook his head. "I didn't say it."

Virgil engaged the VTOL. "You felt _something_ for her, didn't you?"

Scott kept his eyes on the windscreen. "I did. I really thought we had something special. He shut his eyes. "I might have loved her, Virg. I wish we'd had time to find out."

"Then that's enough," Virgil said, and turned them toward home.

–End–


End file.
